CIHM 

Microfiche 
Series 

(Monographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 

microfiches 

(monographles) 


Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  IMicroroproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquas 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibiiographiques 


The  Institute  has  attenr.pted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
.nay  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 

Q Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 

□ Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommag^e 

□ Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  pellicui^ 

I    [  Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I    I  Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g^ographiques  en  couleur 

□ Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

□ Bound  with  other  material  / 
Reli^  avec  d'autres  documents 

□ Only  edition  available  / 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

□ Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de 
I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
intdrieure. 

I  I  Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
' — '  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajout^es  tors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  m  filmees. 

□ Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


L'institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
616  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-§tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  nwdification  dans  la  m6tt\o- 
de  norrnale  de  f  ilmage  sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 

I    I  Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  cou.2ur 

I    I  Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag^s 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurtes  et/ou  pellicul^es 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  d^olor^es,  tachet^es  ou  piqu^es 


I  I  Pages  detached  /  Pages  ddtach^es 
l/i  Showthrough /Transparence 


Quality  of  print  varies  / 
Quality  in^gale  de  I'lmpression 


Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 


□ Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 
tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure.  etc..  ont  6\6  film^s  h  nouveau  de  fa^on  k 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

□ Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
filmees  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This  item  !•  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checiced  below  / 

Ce  document  est  film4  au  taux  de  rMuction  indi(|u4  el-deeaoua. 

lOx  14x  18x  22x  26x  30x 

I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  M  I/I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  TTT- 

12x  16x  20x  24x  28x  32x 


TiM  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  bMn  raproduead  thank* 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

Bibliothique  ginirale, 
University  Laval, 
Quibtc.  QuAbac. 

Tha  imagas  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  bast  quality 
possibia  eonsidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibiiity 
of  tha  originai  copy  and  in  itaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spacif icationa. 


Original  capias  in  printad  papar  eovars  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  eovar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illustratad  imprae* 
sion.  or  tha  bacit  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  capias  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion.  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  Hluatratad  improaaion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  — (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  ▼  (maaning  "END"), 
whidiavar  appiiaa. 

Maps,  pistas.  eharta.  ate.,  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  reduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  ara  filmad 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  eomar.  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  film*  fut  raproduit  grlca  i  la 
g*n«rositA  da: 

BibliotMque  ginirale, 
Univertiti  Laval, 
QuMmc,  QuAbac. 

Las  imsges  suivantes  ont  M  reproduites  svec  l« 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteta  de  rexemplaire  film«,  et  en 
conf  ormit*  avac  lea  eonditiona  du  contrat  de 
filmaga. 

Lea  axemplairae  originaux  dont  la  couvarture  an 
papier  eat  imprim4a  aont  filmte  en  comment  ant 
par  la  premier  plat  at  en  terminent  soit  par  la 
darniire  page  qui  comporte  une  amprelnta 
d'impression  ou  d'illustrstion,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Toua  las  autras  exemplairas 
originaux  aont  fNnt4a  an  commanqant  par  la 
premiere  pege  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreasion  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminent  par 
la  darniire  paga  qui  comporte  una  telle 
amprainte. 

Un  das  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
caa:  la  aymbola       aignHia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
aymbola  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 

Lea  eartaa.  piancliae.  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmte  i  des  taux  da  riduction  diffarents. 
Lorsqua  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  fttre 
reproduit  en  un  seui  clichi,  il  est  filma  i  partir 
da  Tangle  supirieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite. 
et  de  haut  an  bas.  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Lea  diagrammas  suivants 
iiluatrant  la  mithoda. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY  RESOIUTKJN  TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


A    /APPLIED  IIVMGE  he 

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W.  J.  DAWSON'S  WORKS 


A  Soldier  of  the  Future 

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A  SOLDIER  OF  THE 
FUTURE 

//a 

BY 

WILLIAM  J.  DAWSON 

JttAor     "A  Pr^ktt  im  Bal^hm,"  "TAi  Em^n 
^fUvit"  "Maitrs  ^ Mmkm 


Niw  YoMc      CmcAoo  Tokraro 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Compai. 

LONDOM        AMD  BoiRSVkOH 


CopjrHgM,  1908,  by 
PLBMING  H.  RBVBLL  COMPANY 


SECOND  EDITIOi: 


New  York:  i$8  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto  :  35  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  a  i  Paternoster  Square 
Edinbuigh:  100  Princes  Street 


• 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTXR  TAOM 

Tnot"    s  9 

I.  ,  :  ./•Coum                    •  s7 

II.  Wha    !.j  Tkuth?      ....  41 

III.  Thk  Pictvrb  59 

IV.  The  Question  76 

V.  The  Bridge  Party                        •  <^ 

VI.  They  or  One's  Own  Household         11  i 

VII.   Ivan  Levin  128 

VIII.  It  Will  Shake  the  World            .  145 

IX.  But  Some  Dovbtio  .161 

X.  Hbrcy  Lanb  178 

XL  TRBCoimnaoN  196 

XIL   The  Voice  1x3 

XIII.  Helen's  Case  131 

XIV.  The  Cardinal's  Appeal    .      .  149 
XV.  The  Devil's  Kingdom       .      .  .267 

XVI,  How  Long,  O  Lord  !       .      .      .  284 

XVn.   Thk  Sign  ^02 

XVIIL  The  New  World  Is  Born  .319 

XIX.  The  Fallen  Chvkch       .  .337 

Epilogve  355 


TO  THE  DREAM-GIVER 


Take  Thou  the  Vision ;  lo,  it  stands 
Securely  wrought :  it  is  not  mine. 

Take  Thou  the  toil  of  human  hands, 
The  Vision  and  the  Toil  are  Thine. 

I  am  Thy  servant ;  I  but  speak 
The  message  of  Thy  silent  lips ; 

Mine  is  the  utterance — how  weak! 
But  Thine  the  strong  Apocalypse. 

Dread  grace  of  God,  transcending  law, 
On  Thee  my  human  spirit  leant ; 

Me  Thou  didst  choose ;  forgive  the  flaw 
Within  Thy  faulty  instrument. 

For  I  have  uttered  Thy  command ; 

And  now  I  wait,  with  watchful  eyes 
Turned  seaward,  all  the  thing  I  planned,—* 

The  sailing  of  Thy  Argosies. 

The  undiscovered  land  grows  clear. 
The  purple  sail  now  takes  the  breeze ; 

And  Thou,  while  human  strength  shalt  steer. 
Wilt  walk  before  us  on  the  seas. 

Take  Thou  the  Vision ;  lo,  it  stands 
Securely  wrought,  divinely  new ! 

Let  this  be  mine,  with  toil  of  hands 
And  heart  and  brain  to  make  it  true. 


PROLOGUE 


HE  long  August  day  was  at  its  end,  and  a 


wind  of  delicate  coolness  had  begun  to 


blow.  There  had  been  a  wonderful  sun- 
set, one  of  those  magnificent  blazonries  of  colour 
which  happen  rarely,  and  are  remembered  long 
by  persons  of  sensitive  perception.  At  what  seemed 
the  extreme  edje  of  the  world  the  sky  had 
opened  into  a  series  of  lakes,  brimmed  with 
green  fire,  into  which  cloud  promontories  thrust 
out  purple  bastions;  above  these  rose  a  conti- 
nent of  mountains,  topped  with  flame;  still  higher 
spread  a  firmament  of  pure  saffron,  oa  which 
crimson  islands  floated.  As  the  sun  sank  lower 
winged  sjdendours  seemed  to  move  across  this 
strange  cloud-world,  the  domes  and  spires  of  cities 
were  disclosed;  each  caught  the  light  an  instant, 
and  slowly  disappeared,  as  if  sucked  down  into 
the  encroaching  sea  of  emerald  flame,  which  slowly 
overwhelmed  them.  The  eye  could  distinctly  trace 
the  outlines  of  these  sinking  cities, — the  colonnades, 
the  aqueducts,  the  temples,  the  palaces, — ^and  to  the 
religious  soul  the  strange  spectacle  suggested  the 


9 


lO 


PROLOGUE 


end  of  a  world,  as  viewed  by  the  secure  hosts  of 

God  from  some  guarded  eminence. 

The  people  in  the  little  Western  town  of  Gales- 
ville  had  come  out  to  look  on  this  magnificence. 
Groups  of  white-dressed  women  filled  the  porches 
and  piazzas;  outside  the  hotel  chairs  were  ranged 
along  the  sidewalk,  and  at  the  street  corners  groups 
of  men  stood,  gazing  toward  the  west.  It  was 
curious  to  note  that  all  these  men  and  women  were 
silent.  The  only  sound  that  broke  the  silence  was 
the  clanging  monotony  of  a  single  bell  that  rang 
for  worship,  for  it  was  Sunday  evening. 

Among  those  who  sat  outside  the  hotel  was  the 
Reverend  Francis  West,  a  New  York  minister,  who 
on  this  particular  Sunday  completed  the  last  day 
of  his  vacation.  He  had  been  camping  for  six 
weeks  in  the  woods;  from  this  happy  solitude  he 
had  travUed  three  hundred  miles  to  visit  an  old 
college  friend,  and  by  the  perverse  uncertainty  of 
railroads  had  found  himself  stranded  in  this  little 
Western  town  at  midnight  on  the  previous  day. 

Francis  West  was  a  typical  produ».t  of  his  gen- 
eration. He  came  of  good  New  England  stock, 
frugal,  sturdy,  and  inclined  to  harshness.  In  course  of 
time  this  original  harshness  of  nature  had  been  much 
modified  by  culture,  and  still  more  by  the  increasing 
opportunities  of  travel,  which  had  given  access  to 
a  broader  world.  But  neither  culture  nor  travel  had 


k   


PROLOGUE  II 

altered  the  original  ground-work  of  character  in 
his  parents.  Culture  pared  off  the  rough  edges  and 
gave  surface  pdish,  but  the  original  qualities  and 

veinings  cf  the  stone  were  the  same.  His  parents 
after  all  remained  New  Englanders  of  the  earlier 
type;  shrewd,  industrious,  a  trifle  penurious,  ani- 
mated by  uritan  ideals  of  duty,  and  deeply  im- 
pregnaied  with  the  religious  ideas  of  Jonathan 
Edward  ard  his  school. 

To  Francis,  however,  there  was  given  in  his  birth 
a  certain  element  of  lightness,  not  traceable  to 
ancestry.  I  have  called  it  1ightnes.s;  but  only  for 
lack  of  a  better  word,  for  it  was  not  levity,  nor 
was  it  altogether  gaiety;  it  was  rather  a  certain 
sunniness  of  temperament,  to  whic\  the  heavy 
shadows  cast  by  fate  and  destiny  were  abhorrent. 
He  loved  life  for  its  own  sake,  whereas  his  parents 
always  seemed  to  take  life  grudgingly.  Had  he 
chosen  his  course  freely,  he  would  have  been  a 
poet  or  an  artist;  but  unfortunately  for  these  high 
vocations  he  had  no  real  aptitude.  Moreover,  in 
spite  of  this  special  lightness  of  temperament,  he 
was  fundamentally  of  a  serious  nature.  Here  an- 
cestry asserted  ,elr  and  was  not  to  be  ignored.  It 
asserted  itself  th  finality  when  he  chose  the 
Christian  ministry  for  his  vocation.  It  was  a  voca- 
tion that  was  inseparable  from  culture;  it  opened  up 
a  wide  world  of  opportunity;  it  gave  him  a  posi- 


"  PROLOGUE 

tion  of  authority.  This  he  could  foresee  when  he 
m?  le  his  choice,  and  beyond  this  he  saw  little. 

During  the  twelve  years  that  he  had  been  a  min- 
ister he  had  had  no  reason  to  regret  his  choice. 
He  had  found  in  his  vocation  what      expected  to 
find,  and  he  had  been  successful  from  the  worldly 
point  of  view.   After  a  brief  apprenticeship  in  a 
countrj'  pastorate  he  had  become  the  minister  of 
an  influential  church  in  New  York,  and  in  that 
trying  position  had  acquitted  himself  with  honour. 
He  was  now  thirty-five,  and  his  mind  had  reached 
maturity.    But  his  characteristic  lightness  of  tem- 
perament remained  unchanged.   He  cared  little  for 
theology,  disliked  fanaticism  of  every  kind,  took 
life  easily;  his  success  had  been  due  rather  to  gifts 
of  intellect  than  of  spirit.   He  was  scholarly,  elo- 
quent, accomplished;  and  where  such  qualifications 
exist  the  modem  ministry  affords  an  admirable 
mode  of  life. 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  stepped  into  the  road, 
the  better  to  behold  the  dying  splendour  of  the  sun- 
set. It  affected  him  strangely.  He  ransacked  his 
fancy  to  discover  images  and  analogies  by  which 
to  express  his  thoughts.  Among  many  passages 
from  his  favourite  poets  which  thronged  his  mem- 
ory, certain  great  passages  of  Scripture  recurred. 
"And  He  shall  come  with  clouds,  and  every  eye 
shall  see  Him  "—what  a  superb  picture!  Surely 


PROLCX;UE  13 

it  must  have  been  on  such  a  night  as  this  that  John 
conceived  the  vision — sunset  on  Patmos,  and  on 
the  topmost  clouds  of  glory,  or  emerging  from  flam- 
ing gattjways  along  the  level  tract  of  sea,  the  majes- 
tic incomparable  figure  of  the  Lord!  Certainly 
there  was  a  strange  power  in  the  brief  magnificence 
of  sunset  to  make  eternity  seem  real  and  near.  It 
was  as  though  the  v»aole  world  waited  for  some- 
thing, as  though  the  finger  of  a  great  Awe  were  laid 
upon  its  babbling  lips  and  hurried  pulses.  Some- 
thing of  that  Awe  possessed  him  for  an  instant, 
and  he  shivered. 

The  monotonous  bell  still  rang  for  worship.  Sud- 
denly he  decided  that  he  would  go  to  church.  H. 
would  no  doubt  hear  some  preacher  v.ho  could 
teach  him  nothing,  but  after  six  weeks  in  the  woods 
there  was  something  pleasant  in  the  thought  of 
sacred  hymns,  and  all  the  sweet  decorum  of  con- 
gregated worship.  He  strollei  slowly  up  the  street, 
reluctant  to  miss  the  last  throb  of  coloured  flame 
in  the  fading  west. 

The  church  was  plain  and  simple,  an  auditorium 
rather  than  a  church.  He  took  his  seat  near  the 
door,  joined  in  the  singing  of  the  hymns,  and  pres- 
ently found  himself  observing  the  preacher  with 
some  curiosity. 

Certainly  the  preacher  presented  a  curious  ap- 
pearance.   He  was  unusually  tall  and  gaunt,  his 


14  PROLOGUE 

face  was  deeply  lined,  his  hair  was  grizzled;  but 

his  chief  attribute  was  a  certain  tenseness  of  atti- 
tude which  at  first  seemed  half  grotesque,  and  then 
wholly  impressive.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was 
tense,  too;  a  voice  without  the  least  musical  quality, 
but  full  of  strange  vibrations.  He  seemed  to  shoot 
his  words  out  like  arrows  from  a  twanging  bow, 
and  after  each  sentence  he  paused  to  notice  the 
effect. 

"  And  He  shall  come  with  clouds,  and  every  eye 
shall  see  Him,  and  they  also  that  pierced  Him," 
said  the  preacher,  in  accents  of  profound  conviction. 
West  was  startled  at  this  quotation  of  the  very 
words  which  had  been  in  his  own  mind  as  he 
watched  the  sunset,  and  again  he  shivered.  He 
found  himself  suddenly  listening  with  incredible 
intentness,  and  he  noticed  the  same  intentness  in 
others.  The  congregation  was  sparse — ^about  a 
hundred  persons  in  all, — and  in  the  beginning  of 
the  service  their  attitude  was  languid.  But  this 
languor  was  of  short  duration.  The  tense  vibrating 
voice  of  the  preacher  affected  others  as  it  had  al- 
ready affected  West.  From  the  moment  that  the 
text  was"  announced  there  was  breathless  silence; 
men  and  women  bent  forward  and  dull  faces  grew 
bright;  so  still  was  the  church  that  every  tiny  gust 
of  wind  was  distinctly  audible  in  its  passage  through 
the  trees  at  the  comer  of  the  neighbouring  square. 


PROLCX;UE  IS 

This  sound  of  the  wind  seemed  to  add  solemnity  to 
the  hour.  It  was  as  though  the  earth  breathed  in 
her  sleep,  as  though  the  sighs  of  all  the  heavy-laden 
souls  of  all  the  centuries  made  the  air  pregnant  with 

confession. 

The  sermon  was  both  plain  and  brief,  and  West 
wondered  what  secret  power  made  it  so  impressive. 
For  it  had  power  in  spite  of  its  plainness,  in  spite 
even  of  the  grotesque  manners  of  the  preacher.  Grace 
of  diction  it  had  not,  nor  novelty  of  idea,  nor  indeed 
any  of  those  qualities  which  men  usually  associate 
with  successful  pulpit  oratory :  but  it  was,  neverthe- 
less, the  sermon  of  a  man  who  had  thought  much 
and  felt  deeply.  The  high  tense  voice  quivered 
from  time  to  time;  the  homely  face  became  irra- 
diated; the  plain  sentences  were  surcharged  with 
personality.  The  theme  was  the  evils  of  the  world, 
and  the  faithlessness  of  the  modem  Church. 

As  the  discourse  neared  its  close  a  new 
note  of  passion  vibrated  in  the  voice  of  the 
preacher. 

"  You  will  complain  that  this  is  a  gloomy  view  of 
the  world,"  he  said,  "  but  for  my  own  part  it  does 
not  produce  gloom  in  me.  Why  not?  Because 
I  know  that  Christ  is  coming  again  to  set  all  things 
right,  and  I  expect  to  see  Him  at  any  moment.  I 
see  the  world  full  of  folly,  cruelty,  and  vice,  men 
warring  against  each  other,  and  nation  warring 


i6  PROLCXIUE 

against  nation,  but  I  also  see  the  signs  of  His  ap- 
pearing. For  many  years  I  have  prayed  each  night 
for  His  coming,  and  have  slept  in  the  great  hope 
that  He  would  come  before  the  morning  broke. 
That  He  will  come  again  is  certain— He  has  prom- 
ised it.    That  He  may  come  at  any  moment  is 
obvious,  though  we  know  not  the  time  nor  the  sea- 
son.  I  expect  to  see  Him  with  these  human  eyes. 
It  would  not  surprise  me  if  He  came  to-night.  And, 
O,  the  rapture  of  those  souls  who  are  found  watching 
and  waiting,  when  at  last  His  feet  are  heard  along 
the  road,  and  His  hand  is  on  the  doorl  A  thousand 
years  of  wakefulness  and  tears  and  agonised  desire 
were  but  a  light  price  to  pay  for  that  joyous  mo- 
ment.  Yes.  He  comes.   Through  all  the  confusion 
of  the  world  I  hear  the  midnight  cry,  *  Behold  the 
Bridegroom  cometh.'    The  world  and  the  Church 
have  alike  forgotten  His  promise,  but  He  has  not 
forgotten  it.  He  will  come,  and  He  will  come  not 
through  thoughts  and  ideas  as  some  men  hold,  but 
visibly— yes,  visibly,  mark—'  for  behold  He  cometh 
with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him,  and  they 
also  that  pierced  Him,  and  all  nations  of  the  earth 
shall  wail  because  of  Him.'  " 

The  preacher  stopped,  his  face  illumined,  his  arms 
lifted  up  as  if  to  greet  his  descending  Master.  Then 
he  said  quietly :  "  We  will  not  close  this  service  with 
a  hymn  as  is  customary.  I  do  not  know  any  hymn 


PROLOGUB 


•7 


that  we  could  sing  with  entire  sincerity  at  this 
moment.  Let  us  rather  go  home  in  silence." 
He  bowed  his  head,  and  the  congregation  bent 

forward  in  prayer.   In  the  deep  silence  the  sighing 

of  the  wind  was  again  audible — there  was  no  other 
sound.  Then  he  uttered  one  brief  phrase  which 
served  as  benediction  and  dismissal.  In  a  low 
voice,  strangely  softened,  which  seemed  to  mingle 
with  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  to  be  a  part  of  it, 
he  said,  "  Even  so,  come.  Lord  Jesus." 

The  people  left  the  Church  in  quiet  groups,  and 
there  was  little  of  that  interchange  of  friendly  gos- 
sip in  the  vestibule  which  was  customary.  West  ap- 
prt  iched  one  of  these  groups  and  asked  the  name  of 
the  preacher.  It  seemed  that  he  was  a  professor 
in  a  small  theological  college  of  the  South,  doing 
supply  duty  for  the  pastor,  who  was  on  his  vaca- 
tion. A  moment  later  the  Professor  himself  came 
down  the  aisle  and  West  introduced  himself  to  him. 

"I  would  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you/'  said 
West,  "  if  you  are  not  engaged.  Won't  you  walk 
with  me  to  my  hotel  ?  " 

The  Professor  bowed  stiffly,  and  the  two  men 
strolled  slowly  down  the  street.  Some  last  embers 
of  the  sunset  still  burned  in  the  west,  as  though 
a  torch  had  'cen  thrown  down,  scattering  scarlet 
blots  of  flame  along  the  sky-line.  They  walked 
in  silence  for  a  time,  but  West's  thoughts  were  busy. 


»»  PROLOGUE 

What  manner  of  man  wai  thii  strange  preacher? 
West  glanced  at  the  stem  lined  face,  feeling  hi- 

stinctively  that  the  man  had  a  history.  He  felt 
that  he  would  like  to  know  that  hiitory;  it  might 

explain  the  man. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  West,  "  but  the  name  of  your 
college  is  new  to  me.  I  don't  seem  to  have  heard 
of  it" 

"Very  likely  not,"  said  the  Professor.  "The 
name  was  new  to  me  three  years  ago." 

"  Then  you  have  not  long  been  a  Professor?  " 
no;  I  have  had  three  churches,  and  from 
each  I  was  dismissed." 

"Dismissed?"  said  West.  "Surely  that  was 
hard  lines.   How  did  that  happen?" 

"Because  my  preaching  did  not  suit  them,  I 
suppose.  They  wanted  me  to  prophesy  smooth 
things,  as  do  most  of  the  churches  nowadays.  I 
was  unable  to  meet  their  wishes.  That  is  the  enth-e 
story." 

He  smiled  grimly,  and  West  knew  how  some  of 

tKose  deep  lines  had  come  upon  the  stern  face.  He 
reflcc'ed  that  there  was  no  harder  tragedy  than 
that  of  the  ministe)  wh->  does  not  succeed.  Such 
defeats  might  well  leave  furrows  on  the  brow,  and 
might  also  fill  the  heart  and  memory  with  bitter- 
ness. But  the  curious  thing  was  that  the  man  spoke 
without  the  least  bitterness,  without  resentmcirt. 


PROLOGUE 


■9 


with  entire  calmness  indeed,  as  though  the  whole 
affair  were  of  no  importuice. 

"  You  do  not  eem  to  make  a  trouUe  of  it,"  said 
West. 

"  Why  should  I?  "  he  replied.  "  I  was  troubled 
greatly  for  the  people  I  left,  but  for  myself — ^no. 
I  know  that  my  steps  have  been  surely  ordered 
in  the  eternal  councils  from  the  beginning,  and  that 
this  was  part  of  the  predetem.  '  way.  I  know 
also  that  neither  success  ptr  a  count  for  aiqr- 
thing,  becattse  each  is  brie>  .  id  transient  When 
Christ  comes  the  one  thing  iliat  cotmts  will  be  to 
be  found  ready." 

**  Ah ! "  said  West.  "  I  am  afraid  at  this  point  we 
are  not  in  entire  agreement.  I  gather  that  you 
really  believe  in  the  immediate  personal  second 
coming  of  Christ," 

"And  don't  you?" 

"  Not  in  your  sense  of  the  term." 

"  Yet  the  terms  are  so  clear  that  dispute  is  im- 
possible," replied  the  Professor.  "'Behold,  He 
Cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Himf' 
what  can  that  mean  but  that  it  is  the  visible  coming 
of  one  who  is  a  person — ^that  indeed  the  second 
coming  is  as  actual  as  the  first?  But  I  know  what 
you  think — it  is  the  way  in  which  most  men,  yes, 
and  most  ministers,  think  t-^-day.  You  say  He  has 
come  already  in  the  spr'  ^.i  of     •^'?t?an  ideas;  why 


^  PROLOGUE 

don't  you  say  that  His  reported  earthly  life  is  merely 
a  legend  invented  to  express  the  same  ideas?  The 
one  mode  of  thought  is  as  reasonable  as  the  other. 
For  my  part,  I  am  unable  to  juggle  with  plain 
words.  I  believe  in  a  second  coming  because  it  is 
distinctly  promised,  and  moreover,  I  believe  that 
coming  to  be  imminent." 

West  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  He 
began  to  regret  that  he  had  sought  an  interview 
with  a  man  who  was,  after  all,  nothing  but  a  com- 
mon crank.  As  for  himself,  he  had  long  been  en- 
gaged  in  preaching  what  he  called  a  rational  Chris- 
tianity, which  in  plain  language  meant  only  those 
elements  of  Christianity  which  could  be  harmonised 
with  reason.   Most  of  the  preachers  he  knew  took 
the  same  view  of  their  vocation.    To  reach  the 
minds  of  intelligent  men  to-day  it  was  necessary  to 
separate  the  ethical  elements  of  Christianity  from 
the  legendary  and  so-called  supernatural  elements. 
His  mind  had  been  so  long  engaged  in  this  task 
that  he  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  no  other  view 
of  Christianity  was  possible.  And  now  he  was  face 
to  face  with  a  man  who  actually  lived  in  hourly  ex- 
pectation of  a  second  miraculous  coming  of  Christ 
to  earth,  for  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  man's 
smcerity.   And  the  man  was  not  unintelligent— his 
sermon  had  declared  unusual  qualities  of  mind. 
Well,  he  reflected,  human  nature  was  a  queer  med- 


PROLOGUE  31 

ley,  and  the  human  mind  a  queer  jumble  of  reason 
and  superstition.  He  began  to  feel  a  rising  disdain 
for  this  man,  whose  religion  appeared  to  rest  upon 
the  crudest  kind  of  literalism,  and  he  commiserated 
the  students  who  came  to  him  for  instruction. 

But  the  Professor  was  serenely  unconscious  of 
his  disdain  and  pity.    Once  started  upon  his  fa- 
vourite theme,  he  poured  out  his  soul  without  stint. 
He  spoke  of  this  and  that  sign  of  the  times,  long 
foretold;  he  quoted  the  vehement  words  of  Christ 
and  His  Apostles;  and  as  he  spoke  his  face  kindled 
with  sublime  conviction.    West  listened  in  silence, 
interested  in  the  man  rather  than  in  his  views.  And 
yet,  in  spite  of  all  his  incredulity,  from  time  to  time 
something  the  Professor  said  pierced  his  mind  with 
a  flash  of  fire.   What  if  he  were  right,  after  all? 
It  was  ridiculous  to  assume  so  much,  but,  granting 
the  assumption,  West  saw  that  it  was  a  truly  sub- 
lime vision  that  the  man  beheld.    And,  after  all, 
many  had  believed  it — the  Apostles  themselves,  for 
example;  the  early  Christians,  the  Puritans,  the  Pil- 
grim Fathers,  his  own  ancestors,  and,  for  that  mat- 
ter his  own  parents.    He  recollected  how  he  had 
many  times  heard  the  old  minister  in  the  New  Eng- 
land village  where  he  was  born  pray  that  Christ 
would  "  hasten  His  coming."   He  remembered  an 
old  aunt  of  his,  a  white-haired,  godly  woman  with 
a  face  of  great  tranquillity,  who  used  to  say  each 


PROLOGUE 

night  as  she  went  to  bed  that  her  soul  was  pre- 
pared to  meet  the  Lord  if  He  came  before  the  morn- 
ing. Ah,  that  was  the  pathos  of  it— all  these  tired 
eyes  wearied  out  with  fruitless  gazing  for  a  Lord 
who  never  came  I  And  yet  what  dignity  the  thought, 
the  delusion  if  so  it  was,  gave  to  their  lives!  How 
firmly  they  moved  along  the  hard  ways  of  duty, 
undismayed  alike  by  sorrow  or  catastrophe,  be- 
cause they  expected  One  to  come  who  should  make 
all  things  right,  all  things  new,  visibly  reconciling 
all  things  to  Himself!  Yes,  it  was  a  great  belief 
— ^if  only  it  were  believable — ^if  only  it  were ! 

The  Professor  had  risen  from  his  chair. 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  he  was  saying,  "  why  men  try 
to  explain  away  the  second  coming  of  Christ.  It 
is  because  they  are  afraid  to  believe  it,  and,  there- 
fore, do  not  wish  to  believe  it.   They  do  not  want 
Christ  to  come.    The  Church  itself  does  not  want 
Him.    The  mere  thought  produces  alarm,  terror. 
But,  nevertheless,  the  word  stands  sure,  '  Behold, 
He  c(»neth  with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see 
Him.'  Good-night,  sir,  we  shall  possibly  never  meet 
again,  but  remember  my  words:  your  eyes  and  mine 
will  surely  see  the  Lord  once  more  moving  through 
the  world  He  has  redeemed;  yes,  we  shall  see  Him 
as  He  is." 

The  Professor  shook  hands,  and  went  swiftly  up 
the  street.  It  seemed  to  West  that  there  was  a  spirit 


PROLOGUE 


of  elation  even  in  his  footsteps;  and  West  ahnost 
envied  him  his  faith.  For,  confessedly,  there  was 
no  such  spirit  of  elation  in  his  own  life.  He  did 
his  duty  with  fidelity,  but  sometimes  with  undis- 
disguised  weariness,  and  with  the  growing  sense  of 
something  futile  in  his  ministry.  Sometimes,  and 
especially  of  late,  he  had  felt  that  it  did  not  much 
matter  what  he  taught  his  congregation,  since  all 
he  taught  had  so  little  visible  effect  upon  their  lives. 
The  good  remained  good,  the  kindly  remained 
kindly,  the  selfish  remained  selfish;  ah,  it  needed 
more  than  the  wisest  teaching  to  effect  any  radical 
alteration  in  these  lives.  What  was  needed  was 
surely  the  vitalising  power  of  some  new  emotion; 
and  this  power  he  well  knew  he  could  not  supply. 
Suddenly  he  saw  that  this  man  whom  he  had  dis- 
dained had  the  power.  It  was  evident  that  his 
entire  character  was  vitalised  by  a  strong  emotion — 
the  conviction  of  the  immment  coming  of  Christ, 
and  that  he  was  capable  of  conmiunicating  this  emo- 
tion to  others.  Was  this,  after  all,  the  lost  dynamic 
of  the  preacher  and  the  Church?  He  smiled  at 
the  question,  and  yet  he  could  not  silence  it. 

The  street  was  now  empty.  The  cool  dusk  had 
closed  down  over  everything.  In  the  high  dome  of 
sky  the  stars  hung,  faintly  visible,  and  a  pale  light 
still  lingered  in  the  west.  He  rose  and  went  to  bed; 
but  before  he  slept  he  stood  a  long  time  at  the 


H  PROLOGUE 

window,  looking  on  the  silent  sky.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  softening  of  heart  as  he  reflected 
on  the  events  of  the  evening.  His  thought  went 
back  to  the  distant  past,  and  the  collective  memory 

of  his  race  stirred  in  him. 

"They  believed  it  all,"  he  thought,  "and  they 
were  the  better  and  the  wiser  for  their  belief.  Am 
I  the  better  or  wiser  for  my  unbelief?  No  belief 
can  be  wholly  false  that  produces  heroic  lives." 

He  remembered  with  singular  distinctness  the  old 
mmister  of  his  boyhood  with  his  constant  prayer, 
"  Lord,  hasten  Thy  coming."  The  old  man  had  had 
m.any  trials;  He  was  finally  left  widowed  and  child- 
less; but  he  never  lost  his  serenity  of  aspect,  and  as 
he  grew  older  this  became  a  sort  of  majestic  tran- 
quillity. The  prayer  so  often  uttered  in  his  ministry 
was  his  dying  prayer  also.  The  old  man  had  been 
heard  uttering  the  petition  in  the  night.  In  the 
morning  they  had  found  him  dead,  kneeling  against 
a  window  that  opened  to  the  east,  perhaps  with  his 
last  earthly  gaze  scanning  the  illumined  clouds  of 
morning  for  the  flash  of  his  Lord's  approaching 
chariot  wheels.  And  as  West  remembered  these 
things  the  question  arose  in  him,  could  he,  or  dare 
he,  use  this  prayer  ? 

"Lord,  hasten  Thy  coming." 

The  words  came  from  his  lips  in  a  whisper.  A 
great  awe  fell  upon  his  spirit.    It  was  as  though 


PROLOGUE  J5 

something  had  spoken  in  him  which  was  himself, 
and  yet  not  himself;  the  ancestral  soul,  as  it  were, 
the  voice  of  his  race,  triumphing  over  the  accidents 
of  his  personality. 

Memories  of  the  past,  the  picture  of  the  over- 
whelming sunset  he  had  seen,  echoes  of  the  voice  of 
the  strange  man  with  whom  he  had  conversed,  all 
floated  through  his  mind  in  confused  impressions; 
and  through  all  the  words  of  the  preacher  throbbed 
like  the  pulse  of  the  sea,  "  Behold,  He  cometh  with 
clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him." 

Then  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  a  dream. 


r 


THE  GHOST  CORNER 

HE  sat  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Veritas 
Club  in  New  York.  The  club  rented 
the  top  floor  of  a  lofty  building  which 
had  only  just  missed  the  distinction  of  being 
a  famous  sky-scraper.  From  the  window  of 
the  club  an  almost  appalling,  certainly  a  most 
impressive,  view  of  New  York  was  visible.  On 
every  side  stretched  the  long  monotonotis  streets, 
like  the  stony  gullies  or  mountain  canyons  of 
Colorado:  here  a  dome  was  thrust  up,  here  a 
spire,  here  a  sky-daring  mass  of  masonry,  suggest- 
ing the  rocky  buttresses  and  pinnacles  of  a  wild 
gorge;  from  the  depth  beneath  came  not  the  sound 
of  rushing  waters,  but  the  roar  of  the  stream  of 
life  in  its  ceaseless  torrent;  far  to  the  eastward  a 
web  of  steel  spanned  the  sky,  and  the  masts  of 
ships  appeared.  The  sky  was  clear,  unstained  by 
smoke;  from  the  roofs  of  these  vast  towers  rose 
plumes  of  white  steam,  like  fragments  of  white 
clouds.  There  was  something  Titanic  in  the  scene; 
it  was  hard  to  believe  that  it  was  the  creation  of  the 

I 

!  .     .       .    V  J.   •      1  I 


a«      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

tiny  creatures  that  swarmed  like  black  ants  far  be- 
low. It  possessed  no  element  of  beauty,  it  lacked 
charm;  but  it  was  immensely  impressive  as  the  crea- 
tion of  human  will  and  energy.  It  was  the  apotheo- 
sis of  materiaHsm,  the  visible  triumph  of  the  utili- 
tarian mind;  no  poet's  thought  breathed  at  any 
point  in  that  hard  mass  of  ghttering  surfaces,  and 
It  was  not  easy  to  imagine  the  existence  of  any 
poetic  sentiments  in  the  people  who  inhabited  these 
rectangular  abysses. 

West  glanced  ca-  ly  at  the  prospect  from  the 
open  window;  he  hi  a  it  too  often  to  be  allured 
by  it.  He  had  just  lunched,  and  was  turning  over 
the  papers  which  lay  upon  the  club  table.  The  mem- 
bers of  the  club  were  slowly  assembling. 

The  Veritas  Club  had  one  distinction,  it  consisted 
for  the  most  part  of  men  of  living  minds.  Its  mem- 
bers were  writers,  thinkers,  the  higher  class  of  jour- 
nalists; West  was  the  only  clergyman.  It  prided 
itself  on  its  exclusiveness. 

Rathbone,  a  rising  novelist  and  magazine  editor, 
had  just  entered  the  room;  close  behind  him  came 
Field,  a  famous  surgeon,  and  Stockmar,  a  philo- 
sophic writer  who  had  already  attained  notoriety, 
and  intended  one  day  to  achieve  fame.  Of  these 
men  Stockmar  possessed  the  most  trenchant  per- 
sonality. He  was  a  big  man,  whose  heavy  form  and 
features  betrayed  his  Teutonic  origin.   He  had  be- 


THE  GHOST  CORNER  39 


come  notorious  by  his  attacks  upon  the  existing 
social  system.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say 
exactly  what  he  believed,  but  his  unbeliefs  '.vere 
numerous  and  militant.  How  far  he  was  sincere  in 
his  wholesale  iconoclasm  was  a  question,  but  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  his  great  ability.  He  both 
spoke  and  wrote  in  a  style  of  trenchant  exaggera- 
tion, which  he  had  purposely  adopted  to  attract 
attention;  but  behind  a  rhetoric  which  was  as  dar- 
ing as  it  was  brilliant  there  lay  a  vast  scholarship 
which  made  him  a  formidable  antagonist.  Very 
few  men  in  the  club  ever  dared  to  cross  controver- 
sial swords  with  him.  They  found  it  safer  and 
much  pleasanter  to  stimulate  him  to  the  point  of 
speech,  and  then  dutifully  listen  to  his  brilliant 
monologues. 

"Well,  West,  anjiihing  in  the  papers?"  said 
Rathbone  carelessly. 

"  Nothing  but  the  usual  trivialities,"  said  West. 
"  It  fills  me  with  wonder  that  you  writing  fellows 
can't  turn  out  a  paper  that  rises  above  the  baldest 
provincialism." 

"  What  sort  of  paper  do  you  want?  *'  said  Rath- 
bone. 

"  A  paper  with  the  world-note  in  it." 
"  And  what  precisely  does  that  mean  ?  " 
"  A  paper  that  really  gives  a  vision  of  the  "  "(rid 
as  a  whole.  There's  no  American  paper  which  qocS 


30  A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 
that.  I  suppoic  it  u  because  there  is  no  real  stand- 
ard for  anything  in  America,  neither  critically 
socially,  nor  inteUectually.  The  result  in  jour- 
nalism is  that  little  things  are  clothed  with  absurd 
values,  and  the  papers  are  filled  with  elaborate 
trivialities  of  not  the  least  importance  to  any 
one."  ' 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  interrupted  the  deep 
voice  of  Stockmar.     "Here's  a  telegram  from 
Rome  which  doesn't  strike  me  as  trivial  at  all  It 
seems  that  the  Pope  has  condemned  as  heretical  and 
forbidden  about  forty  propositions  in  Biblical  criti- 
cism, thirty  at  least  of  which  are  accepted  by  aU 
capable  and  even  orthodox  scholars.  Here's  a  fur- 
ther telegram  to  the  eflFect  that  the  Roman  populace 
stoned  and  nearly  killed  a  Cardinal  in  the  streets 
yesterday.   How's  that  for  a  world  view  ?  Why  it 
presents  the  most  superb  spectacle  imaginableJan 
empire  of  lies  which  has  long  masqueraded  as  re- 
ligion sinking  in  the  red  waves  of  rising  democ- 
racy." 

^     It's  not  quite  sunk  yet,  anyway."  said  West. 

Keligion,  even  when  mixed  with  fakehood,  is  an 
.nextmguishable  instinct  in  man." 

"Cannibalism  was  an  inextinguishable  instinct 
once, '  retorted  Stockmar,  "  but  it's  gone.  It  went 
when  men  found  it  inconvenient,  and  in  the  long  run 
.men  will  always  rid  themselves  of  the  inconvenient. 


THE  GHOST  CORNER  Jl 

That's  why  religion  is  bound  to  go.  It  is  in  the  way. 
Therefore  modem  progress  will  destroy  it." 

"  Here,  Stockmar,  listen,"  said  Field.  "  Here's 
another  curious  telegram  for  you  to  digest.  The 
paper  states  that  there's  some  sort  of  strange  Rus- 
sian Met  in  Canada  who  have  started  out  to  find 
Christ,  who  they  believe  is  to  appear  shortly  in  the 
flesh.  In  Canada,  mind  you;  where  one  might  sup- 
pose men  would  have  enough  to  do  to  tame  the  wil- 
derness, and  build  an  empire.  What  do  you  make 
of  that?" 

"  Simply  that  a  certain  number  of  the  human  race 
are  always  insane.  These  people  are  insane,"  said 
Stockmar. 

"  That  won't  do,"  replied  the  surgeon.  "  You 
will  find  individuals  insane,  but  you  dcm't  find  insane 
communities." 

"Don't  you?"  retorted  Stockmar.  "Why,  re- 
ligion itself  is  an  insanity,  and  whole  communities 
suffer  from  it.  To  believe  the  incredible  is  cer- 
tainly insane,  and  all  the  religions  of  the  world  rest 
upon  the  incredible." 

"Christianity  included?"  said  West 

"Christianity  preeminently,"  replied  Stockmar. 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  us  what  your  real  thoughts 
about  Christianity  are,"  said  Rathbone. 

The  big  man  wheeled  his  chair  nearer  to  his  three 
listeners,  and  Ht  a  cigar  with  cool  deliberation. 


la      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"I've  no  objection,"  be  Mid,  "if  West  has 
none. ' 

"  I  cultivate  curioiity  as  a  means  of  knowledge," 

said  West,  with  a  smUe.   "  Pray  proceed." 

"Curiosity  as  a  means  of  knowledge?"  replied 
Siockmar.    "  I  wonder  just  how  far  the  curiosity 
of  the  ordinary  man  will  carry  him.    IVe  never 
found  that  it  is  prepared  to  go  to  the  root  of  things. 
As  soon  as  it  comes  to  a  dark  corner  it  sees  ghosts 
and  runs  away.  Especially  in  matters  of  religion. 
Your  most  liberal  theologians  are  a  case  in  point. 
They  march  out  with  a  mighty  flourish  of  courage, 
but  they  soon  see  the  ghost,  and  run  back  to  the 
shelter  of  a  pseudo-orthodoxy.   Now  I'm  like  Cole- 
ridge, I've  seen  too  many  ghosts  to  believe  in  them. 
I've  got  past  the  ghost-corner,  and  found  it  really 
empty  after  all.    'Which  things  are  an  allegory,' 
as  Paul  said;  and  if  Paul  had  had  more  moments 
of  redeeming  sanity  he  would  have  passed  the  same 
verdict  on  about  nine-tenths  of  his  own  wrii  ngs." 

He  paused,  shook  the  ash  from  his  cigar,  and 
plunged  into  one  of  those  monologues  for  which 
he  .vas  remarkable. 

His  views  were  not  novel,  but  they  were  ex- 
pressed with  a  force  of  phrase  that  gave  them  an  air 
of  originality.  Christianity,  he  asserted,  was  simply 
the  growth  of  an  exquisite  legend,  which,  like  all 
legends,  was  scientificaUy  false.   It  grew  up  in  an 


THE  GHOST  CORNER  33 

age  when  legend  passed  for  history.  It  found  its 
germ-cell  in  a  life  of  more  than  usual  significance, 
and  straightway  proceeded  to  graft  upon  the  simple 
human  details  of  that  life  every  kind  of  legend 
which  had  hitherto  belonged  to  poetry  and  my- 
thology. The  go'ls  were  believed  to  mingle  with 
men:  therefore  Jesus  came  to  earth  by  a  special 
incarnation.  The  gods  returned  to  heaven  at  will: 
therefore  Jesus  re-ascended  to  the  skies.  The  gods 
were  invulnerable  to  death:  therefore  Jesus  rose 
from  the  dead.  The  Greeks  also  had  their  legend 
of  Hercules  in  Hades,  and  the  Egyptians  their  yet 
more  wonderful  story  of  Osiris.  But  in  this  age 
legend  no  longer  passed  for  h'story,  and  the  result 
was  that  the  story  of  Jesus  had  been  more  and  more 
forced  back  into  the  limits  of  the  human. 

"Ah,"  interrupted  Field,  "but  what  are  the  lim- 
its of  the  human?  For  my  own  part,  I  should  hesi- 
tate to  define  them." 

"  I  should  have  supposed  them  tolerably  plain," 
sneered  Stockmar.  "Birth,  life,  death,— add  the 
details  according  to  taste,  struggle,  folly,  regret, 
and  so  forth, — and  you  have  the  brief  compendium 
of  man  through  all  the  ages." 

"And  no  ghost-corners  in  human  nature,  of 
course?"  Field  replied.  "No  inexplicable  ele- 
ments? I  don't  agree  in  your  diagnosis,  Stockmar." 

"  And  why  not?" 


34      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  Because  I  have  found  out  the  ghost-comers  in 
man,"  Field  quietly  replied. 

Field  was  as  a  rule  a  quiet  lan,  vvho  rarely  took 
part  in  the  discussions  of  the  <  ub    lie  j-reb'  ited  the 
strongest  contrast  to  Stocknic  r  o oth  phys  cally  and 
mentally.    He  was  slight  in  torm,  aic;  ':  in  move- 
ment, his  face  was  thin  and  worn,  his  mouth  firm 
but  kind,  his  eyes  inscrutable.    At  thirty  he  had 
begun  to  be  known  for  his  great  skill  and  daring, 
and  at  forty  he  was  famous.   He  was  not  widely 
read  outside  the  scholarship  of  his  profession,  but 
within  those  limits  he  might  have  been  justly  de- 
scribed as  learned.   His  daily  life  was  too  crowded 
with  practical  details  to  allow  him  much  opportunity 
for  speculative  thought,  but,  nevertheless,  he  was  a 
man  whose  mind  brooded  much  over  the  problems 
of  human  personality.   What  his  conclusions  were 
he  had  never  stated;  perhaps  he  had  reached  none. 
But  he  had  often  expressed  his  dissent  from  Stock- 
mar's  glib  materialism;  he  was  at  least  aware  of  a 
mystery  in  life  for  which  Stockmar  had  no  elucida- 
tion, and  as  he  grew  older  his  sense  of  the  mystery 
of  life  deepened.   He  dissented  now. 

'*  Yes,  there  are  ghost-corners  in  human  nature," 
he  quietly  resumed,  "  for  which  you  make  no  allow- 
ance. Have  you  ever  seen  a  man  die,  Stockmar? 
I  have  seen  hundreds,  and  in  a  large  proportion- 
ninety  per  cent.  I  should  say—there  has  been  some- 


THE  GHOST  CORNER  35 

thing  to  convince  me  that  the  potency  which  is  in 
man  is  not  exhausted  by  your  terms  of  birth,  life, 
and  death.  Death  has  again  and  again  impressed 
upon  me  the  phenomenon  of  escaping  spirituaHty. 
That  is  what  I  call  the  ghost-corner  in  human  na- 
ture. I  have  gone  through  the  physical  house  of 
life  thoroughly;  I  have  entered  every  room,  un- 
locked every  door;  I  have  let  in  the  garish  light  on 
every  secret.  And  then  I  have  come  at  last  upon  a 
door  I  c  juld  not  open,  behind  which  moved  a  vital 
creature  unintelligible  to  me.  I  have  heard  its  cries, 
its  baffled  movements,  its  struggle  for  liberation, 
and  I  have  been  afraid.  Yes,  afraid,  Stockmar. 
For  this  concealed  creature  appeared  incapable  of 
death,  and  I  have  figured  it  to  myself  as  something 
bright  and  vital  that  comes  forth  free  in  the  instant 
of  dissolution,  mocking  the  poor  habitation  it  had 
left,  triumphing  over  it." 

"  Dreams,  mere  dreams,"  growled  Stockmar. 

"  *  We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of/  " 
Field  retorted. 

"  Arrant  nonsense,  then,"  said  Stockmar. 

"  You  may  call  it  so,  I  do  not,"  said  Field.  "And 
because  I  do  not,  your  account  of  Christianity  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  lacking  in  intelligence.  Why 
have  all  nations  had  their  legends  of  men  descend- 
ing from  the  skies,  and  returning  to  them?  Be- 
cause they  have  been  dimly  aware  that  man  himself 


36       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

has  descended  from  tlie  skies,  and  returns  to  them 
— ^at  least  some  essential  element  in  man.  The 
.'egend  has  become  credible  onl;  because  it  has  been 
based  upon  some  real  perception  which  man  has 
found  true.   Why  have  crowded  centuries  of  men 
believed  in  the  victory  of  Jesus  over  death,  and  of 
His  subsequent  resurrection?   Because  they  felt  it 
ought  to  be  true— its  truth  was  the  affirmation  of 
some  element  in  man  which  man  found  credible. 
I  am  no  theologian;  I  fear  I  am  not  even  a  Chris- 
tian; but  I  affirm  that  to  me,  as  a  surgeon,  there  is 
nothing  incredible  in  the  idea  of  Jesus  rising  from 
the  dead,  and  therefore  of  His  being  actuaUy  alive 
at  this  hour." 

The  brief  afternoon  light  was  fading,  and  the 
four  men  had  drawn  closer  together,  the  better  to 
see  each  other's  faces.  T'le  discussion  which  had 
commenced  in  Stockmar's  display  of  somewhat 
theatrical  rhetoric,  had  gradually  deepened  into  pro- 
found seriousness.  It  was  as  though  an  abyss  had 
slowly  opened  at  their  feet.  West  was  pale;  Rath- 
bone  listened  with  strained  attention;  from  the  in- 
scrutable eyes  of  Field  it  was  as  though  a  veil  had 
been  .withdrawn,  leaving  visible  two  wells  of  eager 
light.  Stockmar  alone  showed  no  sign  of  emotion, 
beyond  a  certain  flush  of  rising  anger  and  disdain. 

He  broke  into  a  loud  scornful  laugh  as  Field 
affirmed  his  belief  in  a  Jesus  who  was  alive. 


THE  GHOST  CORNER  37 

"  Give  me  a  single  proved  instance  of  a  man  who 
has  survived  death,  and  I  may  believe  you,"  he  cried. 
"  But  you  know  you  cannot.    There  has  never  yet 
been  a  ghost-story  that  could  survive  strict  exam- 
ination. And  this  precious  farrago  of  incredibilities 
which  men  call  Christianity  is  all  based  upon  a 
ghost-story.   Q,  it  is  the  cleverest  of  ghost-stories, 
—I  don't  deny  that,— but  it  bears  the  marks  of  its 
origin  in  every  feature.  An  hysteric  woman,  nota- 
bly deranged,  thinks  she  sees  a  human  figure  in 
the  elusive  lights  and  shadows  of  a  garden,  and 
straightway  says,  '  It  is  my  Master.'    Two  men, 
overwrought  by  the  strain  of  a  great  tragedy,  are 
overtaken  on  a  lonely  road  by  a  stranger  whose 
face  they  cannot  see,  for  it  is  night,  and  they  at 
once  jump  to  the  conclusion  it  is  their  lost  friend. 
Even  the  woman  is  so  far  from  sure  in  her  belief 
that  she  supposes  for  a  moment  that  the  figure 
she  sees  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  is  the  gardener. 
And  the  men,  in  the  same  way,  talk  for  an  hour 
or  more  with  their  companion  on  the  road,  and  never 
for  an  instant  suspect  his  identity.    It  is  from 
first  to  last  a  case  of  mental  suggestion.  They  want 
to  believe  that  Jesus  is  not  dead,  and  the  wish  be- 
gets the  vision.   And  then,  to  crown  all,  you  have 
a  company  of  these  excited  people  sitting  in  the 
dusk  of  a  silent  room — and  the  door  opens  myste- 
riously, and  a  wind  blows  over  them,  and  they  cry, 


J8      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


*It  is  the  Lord.'    The  door  opens  mysteriously, 

and  a  wind  blows  over  them — a  wind — blows  " 

He  repeated  the  words  thrice,  each  time  more 
slowly,  as  if  he  had  some  difficulty  of  articulation. 

His  face  flushed,  and  then  grew  pale.  "  My 
God !  "  he  groaned.  "  What's  this?  "  He  grasped 
the  arms  of  his  chair,  leaning  forward,  his  eyes 
wide  and  staring. 

"The  door  opens — a  wind  blows  "  he  re- 
peated again.  His  voice  had  sunk  to  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

Field  sprang  forward,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Stock- 
mar's  shoulder. 

"  Stockmar ! "  he  cried,  "  you  are  ill.  What's  the 

matter?" 

Stockmar  did  not  answer.  His  great  bulk  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  shrank  within  itself.  His  blue  eyes 
dilated  in  that  same  dreadful  stare. 

"Ah,  the  ghost-comer,"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

"And  a  wind  blew  *'    His  eyes  closed,  and 

he  became  rigid. 

"  Field,  what  is  it?  What  has  happened?  "  cried 

West  wildly. 

"  It  looks  like  aphasia,"  said  Field.  "  Aphasia, 
and  something  more." 

For  the  words  had  suddenly  vanished  from 
Stockmar's  lips,  as  though  a  sponge  had  passed 
over  them.  It  was  as  if  a  band  had  broken  in  some 


THE  GHOST  CORNER  39 

intricate  machinery;  the  wheels  whirled  for  a  mo- 
ment, moved  more  slowly,  and  at  last  stood  still. 
What  had  stopped  those  wheels?  Rathbone  and 
West  stood  silent  with  a  sense  of  horror.  It  was 
so  sudden,  so  terrible;  this  instant  separation  of  the 
thinking  brain  from  the  speaking  .ps, — this  grop- 
ing after  language,  this  pitiful  futile  eifort,  this 
relapse  of  the  mature  brain  into  the  empty  inco- 
herences of  infancy. 

And  in  each  mind  th^re  stirred  another  thought 
which  neither  could  express — ^a  thought  almost 
formless,  but  yet  intensely  vivid.  What  had  those 
staring  eyes  beheld?  Was  it  what  Mary  saw  in 
the  garden?  what  the  disciples  saw  in  the  upper 
room?  For  they  saw  something.  And  it  was  what 
they  saw  that  had  paralysed  that  brilliarl,  mocking 
tongue. 

Field  was  still  stooping  over  the  stricken  man,  in 
whom  signs  of  consciousness  were  reappearing.  He 
slowly  opened  his  eyes,  and  with  a  great  effort 
rose  from  his  chair.  His  face  was  tragic,  his  hands 
tremulous.  He  looked  from  one  to  another  with 
a  gaze  that  had  lost  all  its  cheerful  effrontery.  It 
was  perplexed,  pleading,  almost  wistful. 

"  Did  any  of  you  fellows  play  me  a  trick?  "  he 
said  slowly. 

They  each  denied  in  turn. 

**  Then  it  must  have  been  that.  O,  ray  God ! " 


40      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

He  shuddered  violently. 

"Come,"  said  Field  cheerfully,  "let  me  take 
you  home.  You've  had  a  shaking,  but  no  doubt 
you'll  be  all  right  to-morrow." 

But  tlie  great  surgeon's  face  belied  his  words. 
"A  shaking— yes,"  Stockmar  said.  "But  it's 
gone  deeper  than  you  think,  Doctor.  Q,  my  God, 
how  deep  it  lias  gone!  No,  I'll  go  alone.  I  must 
go  alone.  Come  around  later  in  the  evening  to 
see  me,  but  at  present  I  must  be  alone." 

He  left  the  room,  amid  the  anxious  silence  of 
his  friends.   When  he  had  gone,  West  and  Rath- 
bone  looked  at  each  other  in  bewildered  surmise. 
They  turned  instinctively  to  the  great  surgeon. 
"  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  they  asked  again. 
"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Field. 
"  But  I  have  my  guess :  you  have  yours.   We  proba- 
bly think  alike.  It's  a  guess  too  awful,  yes,  and  too 
sacred  for  words." 
They  knew  what  he  meant. 
"  I  think  Stockmar  has  had  his  lesson,"  he  said 
gravely.   "  And  for  that  matter  so  have  we.  God 
help  us  each  to  be  the  wiser  for  it.   I  don't  know 
how  you  feel,  but  for  me  this  is  a  supreme  mo- 
ment, and.  like  poor  Stockmar,  I  crave  to  be  alone." 
"  And  I,  too,"  said  Rathbone. 
"  And  I,"  said  West. 
They  separated  without  another  word. 


II 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH? 

WEST  walked  rapidly  to  his  church,  un- 
locked the  side-door,  and  entered  his 
study.   He  switched  on  the  electric  light 
with  an  unsteady  hand,  and  flung  himself  into  his 
arm-chair.    The  church  was  absolutely  empty  and 
silent;  Sturgess,  the  janitor,  had  gone  home  to  sup- 
per.  But  to  West's  excited  nerves  the  silence  was 
alive  with  muffled  sounds.  The  air  throbbed,  whis- 
pers and  murmurs  ran  along  the  walls,  footsteps 
stirred  in  the  dark  passages,  and  he  thought  with  a 
kind  of  terror  of  the  vast  empty  auditorium.  He 
rose  from  his  chair  and  looked  into  that  well  of 
lonely  space.  A  dim  light  pervaded  it,  a  sort  of  vel- 
vet dusk.    He  persuaded  himself  that  he  heard  the 
rustling  of  dresses,  the  soft  creak  of  shoes,  the  low 
breathing  of  an  unseen  crowd,  and  he  found  him- 
self staring  fixedly  at  the  obscure  organ  loft,  as 
if  anticipating  the  music  of  some  soundless  volun- 
tary.  Then  he  fled,  closing  and  lockmg  the  door 
behind  him,  and  once  more  sank  into  his  chair. 
"  My  nerves  are  badly  shaken  by  that  afJair  of 

41 


43       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


Stockmar's,"  he  thought.  "  No  wonder,  for  it  was 

.lorrible." 

The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  thoroughly 
did  the  whole  scene  possess  his  mind.    He  tortured 
his  reason  to  find  explanations  for  it,  but  he  found 
none  that  were  satisfactory.  "Aphasia — and  some- 
thing more,"  Field  had  said;  what  was  this  "  some- 
thing more  "  ?  Of  all  men  Field  was  the  last  who 
could  be  accused  of  credulity  or  hysteria.    Yet  it 
was  clear  that  Feld  suspected,  and  practically  af- 
firmed, the  existence  of  some  strange  cause  for 
Stockmar's  illness  which  lay  beyond  the  physical. 
Field  had  spoken  of  a  guess  at  the  truth,  which 
each  witness  of  the  scene  had  shared,  and  West 
well  knew  the  nature  of  that  unspeakable  con- 
jecture.   But  he  dared  not  define  it.    It  was  a 
thing  too  fantastic,  too  wildly  incredible;  even  Field 
had  not  attempted  its  definition.   An  icy  thrill  ran 
through  his  blood,  a  flash  of  fire  followed,  and 
the  sweat  stood  upon  h:    brow.    With  a  violent 
effort  he  thrust  the  whole  scene  from  him,  drew  his 
chair  to  his  writing-table,  and  began  to  deal  with 
the  papers  that  lay  upon  it. 

There  was  much  to  be  done,  for  the  next  day 
was  Sunday,  and  West  had  let  the  week  drift  away 
in  trivial  duties.  The  notes  of  his  sermon  lay  un- 
finished on  his  desk,  offering  a  silent  challenge  to 
his  distracted  mind.  He  had  counted  on  these  quiet 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  43 

hours  for  the  completion  of  his  task,  and  he  now 
resolutely  bent  his  will  to  his  duty. 

Half  an  hour  passed  in  silence;  then  he  sighed 
heavily  and  laid  down  his  pen.  He  had  written 
nothing;  he  could  write  nothing.  There  had  been 
a  good  deal  of  discussion  of  late  on  what  was  called 
the  New  Theology,  and  he  had  intended  to  deliver 
a  sermon  the  next  morning  on  its  most  important 
phases,  to  which  he  was  prepared  to  give  a  qualified 
support.  But  as  he  reviewed  his  theme  it  seemed 
singularly  barren.  He  now  felt  for  it  an  unac- 
countable distaste,  which  amounted  almost  to 
repugnance. 

He  heard  the  outer  door  open;  a  moment  later  the 
janitor  appeared,  bringing  with  him  the  printed 
forms  of  service  for  the  approaching  Sabbath.  West 

had  been  proud,  and  as  he  thought  justly  proud,  of 
the  perfection  to  which  he  had  brought  the  form 
of  service  in  his  church.  When  he  had  first  come 
to  the  church  the  form  of  service  had  been  plain 
to  baldness,  but  he  had  changed  all  that.  His  artis- 
tic taste  demanded  beauty  in  worship,  and  he  soun 
imposed  his  ideals  upon  a  not  unwilling  congrega- 
tion. He  secured  what  he  believed  was  the  finest 
quartette  in  the  city;  he  laboured  with  them  for 
musical  perfection ;  and  the  result  was  certainly  one 
of  the  most  elaborate  concert  performances  in  any 
church  of  New  York.   His  sermons  had  gradually 


44      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

assimilated  this  new  atmosphere.     They  were 
passages  of  music,  eloquent,  polished,  exquisitely 
balanced.  They  excited  admiration,  they  attracted 
persons  of  taste,  and  with  these  results  he  was 
satisfied.  Another  result  which  he  had  not  noticed, 
or  was  but  dimly  aware  of,  was  that  nearly  all 
the  elements  of  positive  teaching  in  his  ministry  had 
been  dissolved  or  greatly  attenuated.   Perhaps  they 
were  not  keenly  missed  by  the  congregation  he  had 
gathered.    Here  and  there  might  have  been  found 
some  old  white-haired  member  of  the  church,  the 
forlorn  relic  of  an  earlier  dispensation,  who  looked 
up  and  was  not  fed;  but  the  great  majority  was 
satisfied.    For  the  great  majority  was  composed 
of  persons  for  whom  worship  was  a  kind  of  pleas- 
ure; persons  not  at  all  inquisitive  about  truth,  mildly 
intellectual,  feebly  equipped  with  spiritual  percep- 
tion; persons  no  doubt  of  virtue  and  kindliness,  but 
quite  mundane,  who  found  in  West's  preaching  a 
gentle  excitement  to  propriety,  and  would  have 
resented  any  attack  on  their  complacency. 

For  a  long  time  West  had  not  only  accepted  these 
conditions,  but  had  fostered  them.  But  during 
the  last  two  years  there  had  come  to  him  by  slow 
degrees  that  sense  of  weariness  and  futility  in  his 
ministry  which  he  had  confessed  to  himself  on  that 
night  when  he  heard  the  Galesville  minister.  The 
good  remained  good,  the  kindly  remained  kindly. 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  41 

the  selfish  remained  selfish—that  was  the  perplex- 
ing fact  which  had  begun  to  be  acutely  painful  to 
him.  That  he  should  have  reached  such  a  stage  of 
feeling  was  significant,  though  as  yet  he  had  not 
grasped  this  significance.  But  to-night,  as  he 
glanced  over  the  Sunday's  order  of  service,  as  he 
recollected  with  an  inward  shudder  the  strange 
scene  in  the  Qub,  that  significance  was  suddenly 
revealed  to  him. 

Was  this  weekly  service,  with  all  its  exquisite 
elaboration,  a  true  expression  of  a  Christian  minis- 
try?  Was  it  not  histrionic,  a  performance,  miss- 
ing the  essential  note  of  reality?    It  appealed  to 
the  senses,  it  gratified  the  aesthetic  taste,  but  did  it 
touch  the  soul?    He  knew  that  it  did  not,  that 
it  was  scarcely  meant  to  do  so.   There  came  to  his 
memory  the  terrible  and  scornful  words  of  Ezekiel, 
"Lo,  thou  art  unto  tfiem  as  a  very  lovely  song 
of  one  that  hath  a  pleasant  voice,  and  can  play 
well  on  an  instrument;  for  they  hear  thy  words, 
but  they  do  them  not."  And  sharper  than  that  re- 
proach was  another  which  he  dared  not  articulate; 
if  the  Christ  who  warred  against  the  ancient  mate- 
rialism of  the  Church  should  enter  this  church, 
what  would  He  say?  With  what  eyes  would  He 
look  upon  this  master  of  a  pleasant  voice,  who 
soothed  the  people  into  inert  complacency,  fed  upon 
their  admiration,  and  spoke  words  not  only  which' 


46       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


they  did  not,  but  which  they  were  scarcely  expected 

to  do? 

"  Is  this  what  I  really  am?  Is  this  what  I  have 
come  to?  "  he  thought. 

He  was  roused  from  his  painful  reverie  by  the 
presence  of  the  janitor. 

The  janitor,  Sturgess,  was  an  old  man,  with 
a  venerable  white  head,  ruddy  cheeks,  and  watch- 
ful blue  eyes,  now  slightly  dimmed  with  years.  He 
had  entered  on  his  office  more  than  forty  years 
before,  when  the  firsi  c'lurch  was  built;  he  had 
survived  half  a  dozen  ministries,  and  was  c*' 
tive.  West  had  always  had  a  strong  liking  i^: 
him,  partly  because  he  came  from  New  England, 
partly  because  he  bore  in  ^>eech  and  manners  a 
curious  resemblance  to  West's  own  father.  Certain 
terms  of  expression  in  the  old  man's  speech  vividly 
recalled  the  countryside  where  West  had  grown 
to  youth;  he  had  in  full  measure  the  characteristic 
New  England  gifts  of  shrewdness,  reticence,  and 
dry  humour.  He  was  unaffectedly  devout,  a  con- 
noisseur in  sermons,  and  by  no  means  unwilling 
to  express  his  views  when  once  the  crust  of  his 
habitual  reticence  was  broken  through. 

"  Have  you  any  further  orders  for  me?  "  the  old 
man  enquired. 

"  I  think  not,  Sturgess." 

"I  thought  you  looked  kind  of  troubled,  as  if 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  4; 

something  didn't  pbasc  yott  Is  it  the  anthems  as 

isn't  right  ? " 

"O,  I  believe  they  are  right  enough,  Sturgess, 
but  it's  true  they  don't  quite  please  me." 

"They  don't  please  me  neither,  if  you'll  let  me 
say  so.  We  used  only  to  have  one,  and  now  there's 

two  and  sometimes  three,  and  they're  that  long 
that  by  the  time  they're  done  the  sermon  don't  get 
fair  play,  so  to  speak.  When  old  Dr.  Littleton  was 
here,  we  used  to  have  good  hymns  which  every  one 
could  sing,  and  with  all  respect  to  your  judgment, 
sir,  it  seems  to  me  the  service  helped  one  more 
then  than  it  do  now." 

"  Ah,  Sturgess,"  said  West,  with  a  smile,  "  you 
see  you  are  rather  old-fashioned." 

"  I've  lived  a  long  time,"  said  the  old  man  simply. 

"And  you  don't  really  approve  of  me,  do  you? 
I  quite  sympathise  with  you,  for  I  don't  altogether 
approve  of  myself." 

^  "  O,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  not  by  no  means,  sir. 
I've  always  thought  you  a  very  clever  preacher, 
much  cleverer  than  Dr.  Littleton,  who  grew  to  be 
quite  tedious  before  the  end.  But  somehow  things 
was  warmer  then,  and  the  old  doctor  had  a 
way  of  making  you  feel  that  what  he  said  was 
true." 

"And  I  don't?   Eh,  Sturgess?" 

"  Now  I  won't  have  words  put  in  my  mouth  like 


>         1  ! 

Ni  


48       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

that.  I  didn't  say  that,  and  wouldn't  have  said 
it  on  no  account.  But  v'^en  you've  had  all  these 
anthems,  and  know  that  they  that  sung  them  ain't 
one  of  them  a  church  member,  nor  cares  for  the 
essentials  of  religion,  being  just  concert  singers 
and  no  more,  why,  the  sermon  don't  someway  seem 
real — and  it  don't  grip  sometimes  as  I  could  wish. 
No  doubt  'tis  my  fault,  being  an  old  man  and  not 
musical  inclined,  but  since  you've  let  me  speak,  why 
that's  how  I  feel." 

"  It  don't  seem  real " — the  old  man's  words 
strangely  coincided  with  West's  own  thought.  And 
he  knew  instinctively  that,  though  Sturgess  had  laid 
the  entire  blame  of  the  unreality  of  the  services  on 
the  music,  this  was  not  the  whole  of  his  thought. 
West's  memory  went  back  to  the  shingled  meeting- 
house of  his  youth — just  such  a  church  as  that  in 
which  Sturgess  had  been  bred — with  its  atmosphere 
of  silent  earnestness,  its  crude  but  real  devotion, 
above  all  its  indomitable  "essentials  of  religion." 
How  often  had  he,  as  a  boy,  trembled  imder  the  ap- 
peals of  long  forgotten  ministers  from  that  homdy 
pulpit !  How  had  he  learned  to  walk  warily  among 
what  these  vehement  censors  of  life  described  as  the 
diabolic  traps  and  snares  of  the  wicked  world! 
There  had  been  little  tenderness  in  their  preach- 
ing; too  often  they  trod  iuthlessly  over  the  sensi- 
tiveness of  young  hearts.   The  God  in  whom  they 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  49 

believed  was  by  no  means  amiable,  the  religion  they 
presented  was  stern  and  formidable.  But   dw  tonic 
it  was!   What  vigour  of  will  it  begot,  what  energy 
of  virtue  it  developed  in  men  and  women!  For 
it  was  undoubtedly  a  real  religion,  so  real  that  it 
broke  the  soul  into  obedience  to  the  great  Task- 
master, produced  agonies  and  raptures  in  its  dis- 
ciples, cast  over  all  that  bleak  countryside  the  awful 
light  of  the  eternal.  West  could  still  vividly  recall 
some  of  those  strong  emotions;  the  sense  he  had 
of  One  who  watched  his  slightest  actions,  and  linked 
those  actions  with  interminable  destinies.   He  could 
still  recall  long  periods,  after  some  more  than 
usually  strenuous  series  of  solemn  sermons,  when 
he  walked  across  those  fields  in  actual  fear  of  an 
immediate  judgment,  pursued  by  the  open  eye  of 
God.   Then  he  had  left  home;  he  had  passed  into 
a  larger  world,  where  all  beliefs  sat  lightly,  and  had 
soon  found  himself  disdainful  of  what  he  called 
"the  barbaric  theology"  of  his  youth.    He  had 
renounced  it  cheerfully,  and  without  sense  of  loss. 
But  now  he  was  not  so  sure;  above  all  he  had  begun 
to  suspect  that  he  had  lost  more  than  he  knew 
in  that  unregretful  renunciation. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  am  old-fashioned,"  the  old 
man  continued,  "  but  you  see,  sir,  as  one  gets  older 
the  things  that  happened  long  ago  seem  the  clearest 
and  the  dearest.   And  I  guess  it's  the  same  with 


so      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


truths.  The  old  truths  come  back  with  a  new  grip 
as  you  get  near  the  grave." 

"The  old  truths" — West  did  not  need  to  ask 
what  they  were.  But  were  they  truths?— that  was 
the  point.  A  God  watching  every  human  creature 
with  jealous  eyes,  a  Son  of  God  bom  into  the  world 
by  supernatural  processes,  and  pledged  to  return  to 
the  world  to  judge  it  finally;  human  life,  even  in 
its  humblest  form,  thus  invested  with  an  atmosphere 
of  sublime  mystery  and  terror — ^how  could  any 
man  of  intelligence  believe  these  things  in  this 
modern  day?    They  were  beliefs  natural  enough, 
credible  enough,  in  an  age  which  conceived  the 
Earth  as  the  one  inhabited  spot  in  the  immense 
abysses  of  space  and  peopled  by  a  race  especially 
created  to  serve  the  spiritual  experiment  of  an 
Almighty  creator.    But  the  heavens  had  now  be- 
come astronomical,  science  had  declared  man  no 
special  creation,  but  the  creature  of  a  slow  evolu- 
tion from  the  lowest  forms  of  life,  who  had  needed 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  years  to  reach  his 
present  condition  of  development.  And  the  restless 
intellectual  curiosity  which  had  pierced  veil  after 
veil  in  the  dim  arcana  of  nature,  finding  at  each 
stage  fresh  proof  of  the  relative  insignificance  of 
man  and  his  world,  bad  also  discerned  an  alterable 
reign  of  law  which  made  miraculous  births,  miracu- 
lous interferences  of  the  unknown  power  which  was 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  51 

supposed  to  have  created  man,  utterly  impossible 
and  even  absurd.  A  man  like  Sturgess,  plain,  sim- 
ple, and  uneducated,  might  believe  these  venerable 
fables,  and  call  them  truths;  they  might  even  be 
helpful  to  him  both  as  stimulus  and  restraint;  but 
what  meaning  could  they  have  to  a  trained 
intelligence? 

And  yet— these  same  "  old  truths  "  produced  the 
noblest  types  of  character— that  was  incontestable. 
And  these  modem  truths— was  it  not  evident  that 
there  was  no  power  of  stimulus  or  restraint  in  them, 
that  they  had,  in  fact,  produced  an  infinite  moral 
lassitude,  so  that  the  churches  themselves  were  full 
of  men  and  women  in  whom  the  spiritual  sense  was 
feeble,  the  moral  temper  without  fervency  or 
vigour  ? 

West  groaned  under  the  burden  of  these  thoughts. 
Sturgess  was  about  to  leave  the  room.  He 
looked  wistfuUy  at  the  perplexed  minister,  but  said 

nothing. 

West  nodded  a  dismissal  to  the  old  man,  and  once 
more  took  up  his  pen.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  he 
put  it  down  wearily,  convinced  at  last  that  the  theme 
he  had  intended  to  preach  upon  was  worthless. 
Something  like  this  had  happened  to  him  before, 
but  it  had  never  occasioned  him  such  dismay.  He 
had  more  than  once  had  to  change  his  theme  at  the 
last  moment,  but  that  was  usually  because  some 


52       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

more  vital  or  seductive  theme  had  suddenly  seized 
upon  his  mind.  But  he  recognised  that  this  case 
was  different — there  was  no  new  theme  that  thrust 
an  old  one  out  by  its  demand  for  utterance — rather 
there  was  a  general  sense  that  his  entire  world 
of  thought  had  shifted,  that  its  central  pivot  was 
lost,  that  he  stood  amid  its  ruins. 

"  God  help  me,"  he  groaned.  "  If  I  cannot  be- 
lieve either  the  old  truth  or  the  new,  what  is  there 
left  for  me  to  preach?" 

Once  more  there  returned  upon  his  memory  the 
scene  at  the  Club,  and  he  was  now  no  longer  able 
to  thrust  it  from  him.  It  seized  upon  his  startled 
mind  with  a  strange  vehemence;  it  obsessed  him. 
What  had  Stockmar  seen?  Ah,  Whatf 

Late  as  it  was,  he  resolved  to  visit  Stockmar 
before  he  slept. 

He  went  out  into  the  street,  caught  a  passing 
car,  and  found  himself  at  the  vast  apartment  house 
where  Stockmar  resided. 

He  found  Stockmar  sitting  listlessly  before  an 
unlighted  log-fire.  A  shaded  lamp  burned  upon  the 
library  table;  on  the  floor  books  lay  in  confusion; 
at  St5ckmar's  side  was  an  open  Bible.  The  big 
man  had  recovered  his  colour,  but  upon  his  face 
there  was  a  curious  look  of  half-wistful  hesita- 
tion, very  different  from  his  usual  aspect  of  ag- 
gressive dogmatism.   His  manner,  too,  was  stngu- 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  53 

larly  quiet  and  almost  humble.  He  motioned  West 
to  a  chair,  took  his  hand  with  eagerness,  held  it 
long;  there  was  an  element  of  appeal  in  the  act 
which  was  touching. 

"  You  are  better?  "  said  West. 

"  Physically,  yes.  But  the  trouble  isn't  physical, 
you  know." 

An  awkward  silence  ensued.  Stockmar,  even  in 
his  weakness,  was  a  formidable  personality.  West 
hesitated  to  disturb  him  with  questions  which  might 
appear  selfishly  curious. 

Stockmar  himself  broke  the  silence. 
"  I  know  why  you  have  come,"  he  said.   "  I  have 
expected  you.    I  think  I  know  what  you  want  to 
say.   Please  cut  out  the  preliminaries.   You  want 
to  know  what  lies  behind  my  strange  conduct  at 
the  Club,  don't  you?" 
"  Yes,  that  is  it.  I  have  a  good  reason." 
"  I'll  take  the  reason  for  granted,"  he  interrupted. 
"  West,  you  have  known  me  for  some  years.  Do 
you  mind  telling  me  quite  frankly  what  kind  of 
man  I  have  appeared  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  you  for  a  strong  man,  Stockmar. 
Yes,  I  think  that  is  the  word  which  best  describes 
my  dominant  impression.  Strong  in  will  and  in- 
tellect, I  mean— even  perversely  daring." 

"  And  you  have  never  known  me  tell  a  lie?  O, 
I  know  that  I  am  a  somewhat  histrionic  person. 


:  I 
!  ■ 

54      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

But  you  have  never  known  me  say  what  I  did  not 
at  least  believe,  or  merely  act  a  part,  or  anything 
of  that  kind?" 

"  No,  Stocktnar,  you  are  histrionic,  but  I  believe 
you  absolutely  honest." 

"Then  listen  to  an  honest  man's  confession, 
West.  The  bottom  is  knocked  out  of  my  phi- 
losophy." 

"  Since  when  ?  "  said  West,  in  an  eager  whisper. 

"  Since  five  o'clock  this  afternoon.  That  was  the 
exact  hour  when  my  world  fell  to  pieces." 

"And  why?"  said  West,  in  the  same  low 
whisper. 

"  Because  at  that  hour  the  incredible  became  true. 

At  that  hour  /  saw  Jesus  Christ!  " 

West  had  expected  the  confession,  but  now  that 
it  was  actually  spoken  it  thrilled  him  with  aston- 
ishment. His  nci-ves  tingled,  his  heart  contracted 
in  an  acute  spasm,  his  breath  came  in  a  hard  gasp. 
Stockmar  himself  trembled  violently  as  he  spoke 
the  words.  He  bent  forward,  hiding  his  face  in 
his  hands.  When  he  looked  up  again,  his  face 
was  haggard  but  composed. 

"  At  five  o'clock  this  afternoon,"  he  repeated,  "  I 
saw  Jesus  Christ.  Now  listen,  West.  I  have  never 
had  an  attack  of  nerves  in  my  life.  As  a  youngster 
I  went  through  the  Franco-German  War  of  1870. 
I  fought  at  Gravelotte,  and  lay  in  a  wood  for  hours 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  $5 

scourged  by  French  bullets.  I  don't  remember  that 

I  was  once  afraid.   I  have  never  known  what  fear 

was.    This  afternoon  I  was  afraid.    O,  my  God, 

how  afraid  I  was  I  " 
Again  a  violent  shudder  seized  him,  and  he  wiped 

the  sweat  from  his  brow. 
"  Don't  tell  me  anything  further  if  it  distresses 

you,"  said  West. 
"  I  must  tell  you,"  he  replied.  "  I've  told  Field, 

I  must  tell  you.  It  is  not  a  thing  to  be  concealed. 

I  must  tell  everybody." 
"  Go  on  then,"  said  West. 
"  You  know  me  and  the  genei-al  charncter  of  my 
mind,"  he  continued.  "  For  nearly  thirty  years  my 
passion  has  been  for  exact  knowledge.  I  have  ban- 
ished from  my  mind,  one  by  one,  all  beliefs  that 
I  considered  unverifiable.    Christianity,  of  course. 
I  have  warred  against  that  in  chief,  because  that 
seemed  the  worst  kind  of  impostttre.   Once  assume 
that  man  is  only  the  most  cultivated  kind  of  animal, 
and  the  total  rejection  of  Christianity  must  follow. 
That  was  my  assumption,  that  was  my  deduction. 
West,  I  had  proof  to-day  that  man  is  greatly  more 
than  an  animal.    He  can  see  and  feel  things  no 
animal  can  see  and  feel.  What  I  thought  the  solid 
walls  of  the  universe,  steadfast  and  imperishable, 
are  only  thin  veils  after  all.    I  stepped  through 
them  suddenly  into  another  world— West,  man 


$6      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

doesn't  die.  He  cannot  die.  There's  a  life  beyond. 
I  know  it.   I  have  breathed  its  air. 

"And  I  saw  Him— West,  I  saw  Him.  It  was 
no  phantasm  of  the  mind.  The  Man  I  laughed  at, 
the  Man  I  had  just  said  was  dead— I  saw  Him  com- 
ing towards  me,  His  hands  outstretched,  His  lips 
open  in  speecli,  His  eyes  full  of  love  and  reproach 
—and  He  laid  His  hand  softly  on  niy  mouth,  and 
His  eyes  pierced  niy  soul— the  soul  I  had  denied. 
West,  do  you  ever  read  your  Bible  ?  But  I  forgot, 
you  are  a  clergyman— of  course  you  do.  Well, 
listen  to  this,  will  you?" 

He  drew  the  open  Bible  to  his  side,  and  read: 
"'And  Jesus  came  to  them,  and  spake  unto 
them,  saying,  '  Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway,  even 
unto  the  end  of  the  world.' 

And  when  He  had  said  these  things,  as  they 
were  looking.  He  was  taken  up,  and  a  cloud  re- 
ceived Him  out  of  their  sight.  And  while  they  were 
looking  steadfastly  unto  heaven  as  He  went,  behold 
two  men  stood  beside  them  in  white  apparel,  which 
also  said :  Ye  men  of  Galilee,  why  stand  ye  look- 
ing unto  heaven?  This  Jesus,  which  was  received 
up  from  you  unto  heaven,  shall  so  come  in  like 
manner  as  ye  beheld  Him  going  into  heaven.' 
"  And  to  me  He  came,  even  to  me— this  Jesus." 
"  Stockmar,  do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?  " 
asked  West,  in  a  trembling  voice.    He  was  more 


WHAT  IS  TRUTH?  57 

than  thrilled  with  astonishment  now:  he  was  gen- 
uinely shocked. 

The  note  of  exaltation  left  Stockmar's  voice  at 
West's  question. 

"You  doubt  my  sanity;  is  that  it?"  he  replied. 
••Well,  I  don't  wonder.    I  should  certainly  have 
doubted  the  sanity,  or  rather  I  should  have  had  no 
doubts  of  the  insanity,  of  any  man  who  had  made 
such  a  confession  to  me  twenty-four  hours  ago. 
Yet  I  repeat  that  what  I  have  told  you  is  the  actual 
truth.    I  go  further,  and  say  that  the  whole  thing 
IS  mtelligible,  if  you  grant,  as  I  do  now,  that  man 
IS  more  than  matter.   Granted  some  kind  of  spirit- 
ual personality  in  man,  it  is  certain  that  from  time 
to  time  that  personality  wiU  find  means  of  manifest- 
ing itself.  And  if  this  Jesus  was  man  at  his  high- 
est possible  range  of  spiritual  potency,  as  you  wiU 
admit  He  was,  it  is  certain  that  death  would  have 
no  power  to  hinder  His  continual  manifestations  of 
spiritual  personality  to  mankind.    That  is  how  I 
have  argued  it  out  to  myself." 

West  felt  that  further  conversation  was  impos- 
sible.  What  could  he  say?  The  impressive  sim- 
phcity  with  which  Stockmar  had  told  his  tale,  the 
previous  history  of  the  man,  the  indubitable  evidence 
of  some  utter  revolution  of  thought  which  he  pre- 
sented—all this  was  overwhelming,  and  it  silenced 
argument.    Even  in  Stockmar's  face  there  was 


$8      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


something  that  he  had  never  seen  before;  it  was 
not  peace,  though  it  was  curiously  allied  to  peace; 
it  was  rather  a  look  of  satisfaction,  as  of  one  who 
had  reached  the  end  of  some  vast  experiment,  a 
look  of  certitude  through  which  alarm  still  strug- 
gled. .  .  .  West  could  not  define  it,  but  he  felt 
its  reality,  its  impressiveness.  The  nearest  approach 
to  definition  he  could  reach  was  that  a  soul  now 
looked  out  of  those  keen  eyes — a  newborn  soul. 
West  had  often  seen  intellect  there;  but  this  was 
different. 

"Stockmar,"  he  said  finally,  as  he  rose  to  go, 
"  I  believe  the  bottom  has  dropped  out  of  my  phi- 
losophy, too.  I  am  a  miserable  man.  Whatever  you 
have  seen,  I  would  give  the  world  to  see  it,  too." 

"  You  will,"  said  Stockmar,  with  a  return  to 
the  exalted  manner  in  which  he  had  spoken  while 
making  his  confession.  "  There's  a  new  atmos- 
phere in  the  world.  The  barriers  of  materialism 
are  dissolving.   Don't  you  feel  it  ?  " 

"  I  feel  it  now,  as  I  talk  with  you.  But  shall  I 
feel  it  to-morrow?  "  he  answered  wistfully. 

And  with  that  word  he  went  out  into  the  night 


lU 


THE  PICTURE 


EST  made  a  shift  to  get  through  his 


morning  service  on  the  following  Sun- 


day, but  it  required  an  effort  of  which 
he  was  barely  capable.  He  was  conscious  of  both 
mental  and  moral  lassitude.  His  manner,  usually 
so  bright  and  alert,  was  heavy  and  forced,  and  his 
speech  was  halting.  He  was  sensitively  aware  of 
these  defects.  It  was  as  though  he  possessed  a 
double  brain;  the  one  engaged  in  positive  action,  the 
other  in  criticising  this  action  with  deliberate 
sarcasm. 

He  found  himself  also  sensitive  to  impressions 
in  a  way  that  was  quite  new  to  him.  Like  most 
ministers  of  generous  temperament,  he  had  sedu- 
lously built  up  a  belief  in  the  superior  virtue  and 
intelligence  of  his  congregation.  For  the  relation 
of  the  minister  to  his  people  is  very  like  the  rela- 
tion of  a  father  to  his  child;  he  is  silently  aware 
of  defects  in  the  character  of  the  people  which 
he  will  not  openly  admit  even  to  himself.  His 
church  may  not  be  perfect,  as  the  child  is  not  per- 


59 


«0      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FU  rURE 

feet,  but  it  .  his  own.  and  .  nsmni  and  affection 
make  him  blind  to  fauits  v  icii  levertheless  he 
is  uneasily  conscious  But  -o-day  it  seemed  to  West 
that  his  entire  perspective  wa  ^  sharpened.  AB  the 
things  which  I  e  had  h'uhh  u  mdc  r  kindly  veils  of 
tolerance  i-ud  be-ome  •  !enl  pai  lumi- 
"O"     li    '         >cl<c       thf  t'  .    r  of  sin- 

cerit'  in  tlu  ,  '  m.'iii>  '  '  =  .r  -t-  During 
the  long  ela  .  lai  anthei  s  }  m-  spi  t, 
moved  restlessly  i    hi  seat     i<  -yn  A 

his  irritatron     4e    as  p  -   ulari  cd  by 

bass  sole  St,  A-  io  :  Mt  on  ai-  f  an  operat  » 
favouritt  wisn-  s  mr  u,che  with  oatentatioos 
coolness,    id  su,  ^  ir  .  n       -  that  invited  applause. 

W  '  saw  1  con-^rej.  tiL  with  the  same  critical 
and  J  i,dn"  v  ^  \]]  rts  f  little  incidents  in- 
trude., tilt  Ives  :  o(  his  notir*' — the  manifest 
pride   for  inaiam  cer  lin  ^i.>up  of  young 

wonwi  in  their  ;  s  i,  thi  oving  eyes  of  the 
youths,  the  he^vy  ^  v  of  th^  older  men.  There 
w  1-  nr  spinr  of  5«rfe-!aiit>-  nor  even  of  eagerness. 

le  iomin?  cha:  jterisMc  of  the  congregation 
mt:>      ki     of  wearied  acquies  ence;  they  had 

e  aspti  )i  p,  oi'  ho  watched  witho.  t  inter- 
est I  u  a.}  ?n=  ^  hicf.  had  long  ago  become 
too     Lie  t^'r  tit.  e  or  ensure. 

Things  were  in  h-  ttei  when  he  began  to 
pftach,  but  this  caused  iiim  nu  surjjrise,  for  he  knew 


THE  PICTITRE  6t 
himself  incapable  of  preaching.  Stffl  he  must  go 
on  for  his  allotted  time,  although  he  was  abun. 

(laiitly  conscious  that  no  w  rd  he  mtcml  was  worth 
attention.    Here  and  there  K-  discerned  an  ex- 
pression of  polite  surprise  amonfr  the  li.  arers.  and 
in  his  rage  against  liiniself  he  ilm-  ■  wished  that 
some  one  would  rise  ami  rebuke  his  incompetence. 
But  of  course  nothing  of  the  kind  happened;  his 
congregation,  if  they  did  not  listen  vety  closely,  at 
least  sat  still,  with  the  same  air  of  wearied  ac- 
quiescence, to  tf    1  .me  and  halting  end.  And  all 
tlie  while  -his  malignant  second  brain  of  his  ridi- 
culed his  effor  ,  and  gnnned  in  the  face  of  his 
labon  us  rhetoric,    ft    final  jibe  was  to  recall  to 
him  an  incident  o:  ii  .  youth.    He  had  preaclied 
somewhere  m  a  littte  village  church  his  best  student 
sermon~it  was  a  highly-coloured  production  on  the 
subject  of  Belshaaiar's  feast— at  the  close  of  which 
an  old  lady  shook  his  hand,  and  said  with  doubtful 
sincerity,  '  I  wish  to  thank  you,  sir,  for  your 
performance." 

"  God  help  me,"  he  thoughr.  "  That  old  lady 
was  right.  I  was  a  performer  after  all;  the  only 
difference  to-day  is  that  I  am  not  even  an  honest 
performer." 

When  he  left  the  pulpit,  amid  the  strains  of  the 
closing  voluntary,  it  seemed  as  if  mgre 
gation  suddenly  became  natural 


fa      A  SOLDIER  G:«'  the  FUTURE 

like  look  of  impassivity  left  their  faces;  they  moved 
and  talked  as  lively  human  creatures,  and  the  church 
buzzed  with  the  spirit  of  cordial  intercourse.  It 
was  his  custom  to  stand  at  the  pulpit  stair  to  shake 
hands  with  the  people,  and  he  did  so  now,  though 
half-heartedly. 

Among  those  who  thus  sought  him  was  an  elderly, 
bald-headed  man,  named  Payson  Hume.  Hume 
was  esteemed  a  man  of  joviality,  because  he  had 
brusque  manners  and  a  hearty  laugh;  in  reality 
these  manners  covered  a  narrow  heart,  an  alert 
brain,  and  an  unlimited  faculty  of  stealthy  greed. 
He  was  a  broker  in  Wal?  Street,  a  good  fellow  to 
those  who  knew  him  casually;  an  unscrupulous  Shy- 
lock  to  those  who  came  within  his  clutches.  West 
knew  him  only  in  his  character  of  a  good  fellow. 
Payson  Hume  lived  in  good  style,  gave  liberally 
to  the  church  on  occasion,  and  used  his  jovial  man- 
ner to  attach  to  himself  people  who  might  be  useful 
to  him  in  his  business  enterprises.  To  West  he 
had  been  uniformly  kind;  and  West  had  no  reason 
to  suppose  that  the  adulation  which  he  showered 
upon  him  was  insincere. 

"  You  look  a  bit  played  out."  said  Hume,  in  his 
friendliest  manner.  "No  wonder  after  such  a 
sermon." 

West  smiled  grimly.  In  any  one  else  he  would 
have  suspected  irony,  but  not  in  Hume.  Perhaps 


THE  PICTURE  63 

also  the  compliment,  gross  as  it  was,  was  not  alto- 
gether unwelcome.   It  was  a  soothing  ointment  to 

the  hurt  of  his  humiliation. 

"I'm  not  altogether  well,"  he  said.  "I  slept 
badly  last  night." 

"  Come  to  lunch  with  me.  You  want  cheering 
up  a  bit.  Beside  I  have  something  to  talk  to  you 
about  which  I  think  will  interest  you." 

"  You  know  my  rule.  I  don't  lunch  out  Sun- 
days," said  West. 

"  Not  for  once?  Can't  you  make  an  exception? 
I  see  your  wife  waiting  for  you.  Let  me  make  it 
right  with  her." 

Without  any  spoken  permission  Hume  walked 
down  the  aisle,  and  engaged  Mrs.  West  in  con- 
versation. In  a  few  moments  West  joined 
them. 

All  at  once  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  wonM  be 
a  desirable  thing  to  accept  Hume's  invitatioa  He 
was  accustomed  to  talk  over  the  service  with  his 
wife  at  the  Sunday  dinner;  but  there  were  good 
reasons  why  he  should  avoid  such  a  conversation 
to-day.  Helen  West  was  a  woman  of  warm  aflFec- 
tions,  but  an  acute  critic;  she  loved  her  husband, 
but  her  love  had  never  silenced  her  critical  faculty. 
There  was,  in  fact,  a  certain  disputatious  element 
m  her  blood,  the  bequest  of  her  New  England  an- 
cestry.   Her  inteUectuality,  somewhat  repressed  by 


64      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

the  conditions  of  her  life,  found  a  vent  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  her  husband's  teachings;  and  this  habit 
was  further  stimulated  by  the  genuine  pride  she  felt 
in  his  ability.  She  had  a  horror  of  loose  statements 
and  loose  rhetoric  very  unusual  in  a  woman;  she 
conceived  it  part  of  her  duty  as  a  wife  to  keep  her 
husband  up  to  the  mark  of  fine  pulpit  performance. 
This  was  why  West  suddenly  found  Hume's  invi- 
tation desirable.  He  knew  he  had  failed  lamentably 
this  morning,  and  he  was  in  no  mood  to  submit 
to  the  gentle  raillery  of  his  wife. 

"  Mr.  Hume  is  very  anxious  you  should  lunch 
with  him,"  she  said.  "I  have  not  the  least  ob- 
jection. A  little  change  in  the  monotonous  order 
of  things  will  perhaps  do  you  good." 

West  cheerfully  accepted  the  permission.  Hume's 
automobile  stood  at  the  door,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment the  two  men  were  bein^  whirled  along  Fifth 
Avenue  to  Htune's  house. 

Hume's  house  was  small  and  narrow,  after  the 
fashion  of  New  York  houses,  but  great  skill  had 
been  exercised  to  procure  the  appearance  of  inte- 
rior spaciousness.  In  his  way — it  was  a  very  mer- 
cantile way — Hume  was  a  lover  of  art,  and  every 
available  inch  of  wall-space  was  covered  by  good 
pictures.  Lately  he  had  begun  to  purchase  rare 
bodes,  regardin<<  ;i  ?m  as  a  wise  investment.  His 
house  had  gnu't .  i  .  acquired  the  appearance  of  a 


THE  PICTURE  65 

small  museum,  and  the  surest  way  to  his  friend- 
ship was  to  admire  his  acquisitions. 

The  lunch  was  served  immediately,  and  during 
its  course  the  conversation  turned  chiefly  upon  some 
of  the  recent  purchases  Hume  had  made.  West 
found  himself  expanding  in  this  pleasant  atmos- 
phere; he  forgot  his  humiliation  and  fatigue.  He 
had  a  much  more  exact  knowledge  of  art  than 
Hume,  and  he  found  pleasure  in  communicating  his 
knowledge  to  his  host.    T!ie  talk  flowed  on,  and 
West  found  it  delightful.    What  had  become  of 
that  other  world  in  which  he  had  dwelt  during  the 
last  twenty-four  hours— that  world  of  strange 
visions  in  which  Stockmar  moved  like  a  terrible 
apparition,  that  world  of  strained  emotion,  in  which 
he  had  done  battle  with  so  many  alarming  ideas? 
It  had  slowly  sunk  out  of  sight.  He  had  exchanged 
It  for  a  mundane  world,  whose  atmosphere  could 
be  breathed  without  ilistress,  whose  light  fell  pleas- 
antly upon  a  landscape  where  no  ghosts  hid.  After 
all,  the  majority  of  men  lived  in  such  a  world. 
Hume  represented  that  majority.    He  had  never 
grappled  with  an  intellectual  problem  in  his  life, 
he  had  known  nothing  of  the  terror  of  solitary 
thought,  he  had  moved  along  the  somewhat  garish 
path  of  his  life  without  the  least  misgiving.  And 
he  liad  found  tlie  world  a  good  place  to  live  in. 
It  had  given  him  wealth,  luxury,  and  many  pleasant 


66      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

occupations.  Could  he  be  counted  unwise?  Were 
not  those  the  truly  unwise  who  left  the  plain  mun- 
dane path  to  penetrate  the  shadow-haunted  verges 
of  life,  to  perplex  themselves  over  mysteries  that 
were  inscrutable,  to  grapple  whh  the  spectres  of  the 
mind  ?  West's  eye  unconsciously  absorbed  the  pic- 
ture of  this  florid,  jovial  man,  surrounded  by  things 
that  pleased  the  taste,  so  manifestly  sure  of  his 
wisdom,  so  at  ease,  so  visibly  successful,  and  he 
almost  envied  him.  After  all  it  was  a  folly  to  be 
righteous  overmuch;  perhaps  it  was  a  worse  folly 
still  to  think  overmuch  on  perilous  and  clouded 
problems. 

His  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  Hume, 
who  asked  him  abruptly,  "Are  you  interested  in 

gold?" 

West  laughed.   "  Most  men  are,"  he  replied. 

"  But  in  gold  mines,"  said  Hume. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  particularly,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  sometimes  read  astounding  advertise- 
ments in  the  Sunday  papers  of  mines  which  offer 
fabulous  rewards  for  the  investment  of  a  few 
cents.  I  suppose  the  advertisers  choose  the  Sun- 
day papers  because  on  that  day  men  are  so  dis- 
gusted with  the  week's  toil  tliat  they  are  the 
more  ready  to  be  cheated  with  the  dream  of 
wealth." 

Hume  ignored  this  pleasantry.   He  had  been  one 


THE  PICTURE  67 

of  these  advertisers  himself,  though  not  in  his  own 

name. 

"  Well,  I  have  a  gold  mine  to  promote,"  he  said, 
with  an  air  which  was  almost  solemn.  "  It  is  a 
real  mine,  not  a  fake.  It  is  a  veritable  mountain 
of  gold.  I  have  seen  it.  It  was  about  this  that 
I  wished  to  talk  with  you.  In  these  matters  I  al- 
ways think  of  my  friends  first— it's  a  habit  of  mine, 
— and  if  you  have  any  money  to  invest  I  can  let  you 
in  on  the  ground  floor." 

West  shook  his  head.  "I  have  very  little  to 
invest— a  sum  so  inconsiderable  that  you  would 
laugh  at  it." 

"No  sum  is  inconsiderable,"  said  Hume,  with 
conviction.  "In  an  affair  like  thi?  the  reward  is 
so  great  that  a  very  little  nK)ney  goes  a  long  way." 

He  thereupon  entered  on  a  vivid  description  of 
his  project.  He  drew  pictures  of  the  enormous  min- 
eral wealth  that  lay  waiting  for  the  tools  of  man 
in  bleak  mountains  topped  with  everlasting  snow. 
The  Spaniards  had  been  there,  but  they  had  only 
scratched  the  surface.  Now,  after  three  centuries, 
the  treasures  of  which  they  took  but  a  trivial  toll, 
had  been  re-discovered.  Before  long  the  adven- 
turers of  three  ccmtinents  would  be  crowding  to 
this  new  Eldorado.  The  whisper  of  gokl  had  al- 
ready gone  forth,  and  it  would  soon  travel  round 
the  globe.  From  those  bleak  mountains  there  would 


68       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

flow  forth  a  golden  river,  bringing  with  it  luxury 
and  ease  to  muhitudes;  for  those  who  were  first  at 
the  fountain-head  would  naturally  be  the  greatest 
gainers. 

West  listened,  fascinated  in  spite  of  his  better 
judgment.  At  one  point  he  interposed  a  question, 
"  How  did  it  happen  that  you  got  hold  of  this  im- 
mense treasure  ?  " 

*'  O,  tliat's  a  very  easy  proposition,"  said  Hume, 
witli  a  condescending  smile.  "  There  are  a  lot  of 
small  proprietors,  who  have  been  cutting  into  the 
mountain  in  a  feeble  way  for  years.  They've  be- 
come discouraged,  and  we've  either  bought  them 
out  or  forced  them  out,  one  by  one.  You  see,  we've 
got  knowledge,  we've  paid  to  get  it.  They  are  poor 
ignorant  men.   They  can't  stand  up  against  us." 

Then  flashed  before  West's  eyes  a  brief  vision  of 
these  small  proprietors — these  poor  ignorant  men, 
toiling  with  sweat  upon  their  brows,  men  with  wives 
and  families,  doomed  to  eternal  denial  by  this  in- 
domitable mountain,  doomed  finally  to  be  driven 
back  from  the  long-sought  treasure  by  a  power  they 
could  not  resist.  Somehow  it  did  not  seem  quite 
fair.  *He  felt  he  ought  to  protest  against  this  un- 
fairness. But  he  was  swept  from  his  resolve  by 
the  tide  of  Hume's  eloquence.  After  all  it  seemed 
a  natural  process  that  Hume  and  his  confederates, 
being  strong,  should  prevail  against  the  weak.  That 


THE  PICTURE  69 

was  the  law  0/  the  world;  at  least,  everybody  said 

it  was.   And  a  man  could  not  very  well  be  blamed 
for  taking  advantage  of  the  plain  law  of  the  world 
in  which  he  lived. 
Could  he  not? 

The  room  was  hung  with  pictures,  and  at  this 
point  one  small  picture  arrested  West's  attention. 
Among  landscapes  which  breathed  the  poetry  of 
nature,  and  figure  pictures  which  displayed  the 
gaiety  of  life,  there  hung  this  picture  in  its  old 
tarnished  frame— a  single  head,  a  pale  face  with 
deep  challenging  eyes,  a  mouth  curved  in  a  sad 
smile— a  face  at  once  sorrowful  and  majestic,  calm 
but  troubled,  appealing  as  if  in  pain,  yet  triumphant 
as  if  in  the  possession  of  some  immortal  secret. 
The  deep  challenging  eyes  seemed  to  meet  West's 
in  wistful  reproach.  "  Could  ye  not  watch  with 
Me  one  hour?"  they  enquired.  The  words  were 
almost  audible. 

Had  the  words  indeed  been  spoken,  the  shock 
of  surprise  could  not  have  been  more  terrifying. 

With  utter  shame  West  realised  the  situation. 
Here  was  he,  fresh  from  the  jnilpit,  fresh  from  the 
overwhelming  confession  of  Stockmar,  passing  the 
sacred  Sabbath  hours  in  the  gross  visions  created 
by  vulgar  greed— listening  with  avidity  to  Payson 
Hume,  with  his  doubtful  schemes  of  wealth,  even 
envying  him  his  coarse  use  of  life  and  his  sordid 


70      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


success.  "  Could  ye  not  watch  with  Me  one  hour  ?  " 
And  it  seemed  he  could  not,  nor  the  Church  of 
Christ  either.  For  was  not  Payson  Hume  himself 
a  fair  representative  of  the  modern  Church?  He 
was  respectable  and  respected;  he  sat  in  the  chief 
seats  of  the  synagogue;  he  was  esteemed  generous, 
and  his  gifts  were  welcomed.  Between  him,  a  man 
of  this  world,  rejoicing  in  his  portion  in  this  life, 
and  that  sad  majestic  face  in  its  tarnished  frame, 
what  possible  affinity  existed?  Nay,  more,  be- 
tween this  Man  rejoicing  in  his  noble  poverty,  and 
himself,  Francis  West,  listening  through  the  hours 
that  should  be  sacred,  to  the  seductive  voice  of 
Gold— what  possible  aflSnity? 

He  rose  hastily,  violently. 

"  You  must  excuse  me.   I  must  go,"  he  said. 

Hume  looked  at  him  in  offended  surprise. 

"  You're  in  a  mighty  hurry  all  at  once,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I've— I've  forgotten  something,"  he  re- 
plied. 

He  stood  silent  an  instant  before  the  picture,  una- 
We  to  withdraw  his  eyes  from  it. 

"  You  seem  curiously  interested  in  that  picture," 
said  Hume.  "  For  my  part  I  don't  value  it  a  con- 
tinental. I  picked  it  up  for  a  trifle,  just  for  the 
sake  of  the  frame.  You  see,  sacred  pictures  don't 
fetch  anytliing  to-day.    No  one  values  them." 

"  No,"  said  West  slowly,  "  I  suppose  not.  Noth- 


THE  PICTURE  71 

ing  sacred  is  valued  much  to-day— except  for  the 

frame." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Hume  cheerfully.  "The 
frame's  the  chief  thing  in  pictures  like  that. 
Though  I've  sometimes  thought  that  head  was  a 
pretty  decent  piece  of  colour." 

"Yes,"  thought  West  bitterly,  "that's  what  it's 
come  to  with  us  all.  The  frame  and  the  colour, 
that's  all  we  value  in  Christianity.  The  Christ  we 
see  no  more." 

But  he  did  not  utter  his  thought :  he  knew  that 
it  would  be  unintelligible  to  Payson  Hume.  He 
hurriedly  left  the  house,  with  a  bitterer  sense  of 
self-reproach  than  he  had  known  in  all  his  previous 
life. 

The  surprise  of  this  strange  Sabbath  was  not  yet 
complete. 

West  preached  again  at  night,  and  with  even 
more  humiliation  to  himself  than  he  had  felt  in 
the  morning.  He  saw  the  look  of  grieved  sur- 
prise upon  his  wife's  face,  and  was  aware  of  a 
coldly  questioning  look  of  scrutiny  on  many  other 
faces.  The  moment  the  service  was  concluded  he 
designed  to  leave  the  church,  but  it  seemed  there 
were  more  people  than  usual  waiting  to  speak  with 
him.  One  one  he  dismissed  them,  till  only  one 
was  left.  He  appeared  to  be  a  workingman  of 
foreign  extraction.    He  was  dressed  in  clothes 


7a       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

wliidi  were  much  worn,  but  he  bore  himself  with 
quiet  mauhnes.s  ar.d  (hgiiity.  As  he  stepped  for- 
ward into  the  ring  of  Hght  that  shone  from  tlic 
pulpit.  West  noticed  that  his  brow  was  high  and 
pale,  his  eyes  dark  and  questioning,  his  face  the 
face  of  a  thinker  rather  than  an  artisan. 

"  1  wanted  to  ask  you  a  few  questions/'  he  said, 
"if  you'll  let  me,  sir." 

"What  kind  of  questions?"  said  West.  He 
imagined  that  the  man  was  in  need,  probably  of 
money,  and  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  a 
coin. 

"No,  I  don't  want  money,"  said  the  man. 
"  What  I  want  is  knowledge." 

"  On  what  subject  ?  "  said  West  impatiently. 

"  Ab(xit  you.  abou'  this  building,  about  the  things 
that  go  on  in  it."  said  the  man,  with  quiet  dignity. 

"Well,  proceed."  said  West.  "But  please  re- 
member I  am  tired." 

"  I  too  am  tired,"  he  replied.  "  There  are  few 
people  in  the  world  more  tired  than  I." 

West  looked  at  the  man  with  new  interest.  Cer- 
tainly he  did  look  tired. 

"  If  I  can  do  anything  for  you  "  he  began. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  I  ask  nothing  for  myself — nothing  that  you 
would  be  willing  to  give  or  I  to  take — at  present," 
he  said. 


THE  PICTURE  73 

"  This  is  why  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  resumed, 
"  to  ask  you  some  questions.  I  have  walked  a  long 
way  to-day,  and  have  been  in  many  churches.  Last 
of  all  I  came  to  your  church.  I  want  to  know  what 
a  church  is  for?" 

"  Why,  to  promote  the  spiritual  good  of  the  peo- 
ple," said  West  impatiently.  He  began  now  to  be 
sure  that  the  man  was  a  crank,  one  of  those  per- 
sistent monomaniacs  who  wander  in  and  out  of 
churches  to  plague  the  minister  with  theological 
conundrums. 

And  do  you  think  it  does  this?  "  said  the  man. 
"  Don't  be  impatient  with  mc — I  know  you  want 
me  gone.  But  I  have  a  reason  for  asking.  I  have 
been  in  many  churches  to-day,  as  I  told  you — last 
of  all  I  came  to  yours.  They  all  bear  the  name  of 
Christ:  I  thought  that  I  might  find  Christ  in  them. 
Do  you  know  what  I  found  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  West  curtly.  "  But  most  people  find 
what  they  look  for." 

"  Yes,  that  is  true  sometimes — beautifully  true. 
To  the  pious  heart  I  suppose  all  places  are  temples. 
But  I  don't  mean  that." 

"Well,  what  then?  "  said  West. 

"  I  looked  for  Christ,  or  some  one  like  Him,  in 
the  abodes  that  bear  His  name.  He  was  poor,  sim- 
ple, humble,  very  loving.  That  is  so,  is  it  not  ?  All 
the  poor  loved  Him,  because  they  knew  that  He 


74      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 
loved  them.    But  this  is  what  I  found  in  these 
abodes  that  bear  His  name:  no  one  at  all  like 
Him. 

"  r  saw  proud  people  in  the  pews,  proud  of  dress 

aii.l  i)lace,  and  a  proud  man  in  the  pulpit,  proud  of 
knowIc(l{jc;  and  the  preacher  siK^ke  a  special  lan- 
guage which  was  not  PKunt  for  the  poor  and  hum- 
ble.   I  heard  fine  music,  and  1  h-  ird  i)eople  sing: 
but  there  was  a  look  upon  their  faces  that  showed 
me  that  they  knew  not  what  they  sang.  One  woman 
sang  '  He  was  despised  and  rejected  of  men,'  but 
there  were    .  tears  in  her  voice,  and  when  she  had 
done  she  smiled  a  light  smile,  and  looked  round  for 
approv.-il.    1  heard  a  whole  congregation  sing  'All 
hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name,'  but  they  sang  with- 
out awe.  with  their  lips  oniy.    No  one  spoke  to  me, 
some  lo.  ked  at  me  coldly,  some  '       nptuously,  for 
I  am  only  a  workingman.  I  did  i  ,  :     i  that  for 
myself,  but  I  was  sorry  for  them,  o  ■    -  ,  ,  ^aw  that 
they  had  no  compassion.    And  50  ail  day  this 
'bought  has  troubled  me;  what  are  these  churches 
really  for?  Why  do  they  exist?  What  has  Christ 
lo  do  with  them?  " 

"The  churches  have  faults,  but  tliev  do  their 
best,"  said  West. 

"But  do  they  do  the  things  they  ought  to  do? 
The  things  Christ  meant  them  10  do?  If  e.us 
came  as  I  have  come  to-night,  just  a  poor  workin^-- 


THE  PICTURE  ^ 

man,  which  He  was,  you  know,  would  these  abodes 
that  bear  His  name  receive  Him  ? " 

The  question  was  very  softly  uttered,  but  it 
seemed  to  thrill  the  air.  The  church  was  now 
empty,  a  few  lights  only  burned,  and  the  great 
building  was  full  of  shadows. 

West  looked  keenly  at  the  man,  aU  his  impa- 
tience now  merged  in  curiosity.    Who  was  he? 
Commonly  dressed  as  he  was,  he  did  not  speak  Uke 
a  common  man.    There  was  a  curious  mixture  of 
humility  and  authority  in  his  manner. 
"  Who  are  you  ?  "  West  said. 
He  did  not  reply  for  some  moments,  but  during 
those  moments  it  seemed  to  West  that  some  marvel- 
lous change  happened  to  the  man.   Was  it  mere 
fancy— that  face  with  the  high  pale  forehead,  the 
deep  challen^'ing  eyes,  how  like  it  was  to  the  pic- 
ture he  had  seen  in  Hume's  room  that  afternoon! 
And  there  was  the  same  aspect  of  sorrow  ami  secret 
triumph  in  the  face — something  inexplicably  moving 
and  reproachful. 

"Francis  West,"  the  man  said  slowly,  "if  He 
came  as  I  come,  wouldst  thou  receive  Him?  " 

The  words  died  into  a  whisper.  West  had  bowed 
his  head  instinctively. 

When  he  looked  up  the  man  was  gone,  the  church 
was  empty. 


IV 


THE  QUESTION 

WEST  slept  badly  that  night,  and  arose 
on  Monday  morning  unrefreshed  and 
weary.    The  pleasant  land  of  sleep, 
whicli  should  have  been  a  land  of  stillness,  had 
been  for  him  full  of  voices,  vague,  unintelligible, 
menacing.    The  memories  of  ihc  preceding  day 
pursued  him.    The  face  he  had  seen  in  the  pic- 
ture hung  before  him,  painted  on  dark  clouds; 
the  silent  lips  moved  in  some  incommunicable 
counsel;  the  eyes,  so  full  of  pain  and  love,  shone 
like  stars  out  of  wells  of  gloom.    He  had  the 
sense  of  being  watched  by  some  presence  that  he 
feared.    Then  the  dark  heavens  moved  as  if  a 
host  passed  by:  they  passed  with  a  sound  like 
wind  in  the  hou0^s  of  an  interminable  forest.  He 
had  the  sense  of  vast  suspended  destinies,  of  some 
un.''peakal)le  event  of  wliich  these  hosts  possessed 
the  secret;  of  millions  upon  millions  of  human 
creatures  crowding  to  some  solemn  tryst.  Then  the 
stir  and  tiunult  of  these  trampling  multitudes  sank 
in  awful  silence.   The  silence  was  so  complete  that 

76 


THE  QUESTION  77 

he  could  overhear  the  breathing  of  the  world,  the 

throb  of  llie  earth's  pulses.  It  lasted  but  for  a 
nionictit ;  it  was  instantaneously  broken  by  a  crash 
of  awful  music,  and  with  fraginents  of  some 
supreme  harmonies  ringing  in  his  ears  he 
awoke. 

He  lay  a  long  tine,  while  the  blue  light  of  dawn 
passed  to  grey  and  then  to  gold,  thinking  of  these 
things.   He  tried  hard  to  disentangle  his  confused 
thoughts,  to  reduce  them  to  coherence,  but  the  ef- 
fort was  vain.   He  felt  a  painful  need  for  counsel, 
for  sympathy;  but  where  was  he  to  find  them? 
Hitherto  he  had  found  them  in  his  wife,  but  he 
knew  instinctively  that  in  this  strange  crisis  of  his 
life  that  refuge  would  be  of  no  avail    He  could 
imagine  with  what  gentle  irony  she  would  receive 
his  confidences,  he  could  see  upon  her  face  that 
expression  of  uncomprehending  wonder  which  such 
confidences  would  excite.  Her  bright,  alert,  practi- 
cal intelligence  would  recoil  at  once  from  any  ele- 
ment that  was  fantastic  or  abnormal.   For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  realised  with  vividness  how  soli- 
tary is  the  individual  soul;  how  the  more  intimate 
secrets  of  the  spirit  are  rarely  communicable;  how 
within  the  innermost  coils  of  being  sits  a  creature 
never  fully  visible  even  to  the  eyes  of  fondest  love 
or  closest  friendship. 
Monday  morning  was  usuaUy  a  time  of  special 


78       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


confidences  Ix'tween  the  iiusband  and  wife.  It 
brought  an  atniDsphere  of  pleasant  relaxation,  a 
sense  of  leisure,  a  spirit  of  gaiety.  It  was  the  trae 
Sabbatic  hoar,  whoi  the  mind  moved  freely,  and 
each  had  learned  to  value  it;  the  more  so,  becatise 
it  was  so  brief.  It  was  for  each  a  [dace  of  green 
pastures  interposed  between  two  long  stages  on  the 
dusty  road  of  duty. 

But  as  West  met  his  wife  at  brea'.cfast  this  morn- 
ing, he  found  any  kind  of  conversation  difficult. 
Her  gay  comments  on  persons  and  events  fell  on 
heedless  ears. 

"  What  did  Payson  Hume  want  with  you,  I  won- 
der?" she  asked.  "He  wanted  something,  I'll  be 
bound.  For  my  notion  of  Payson  Hume  is  that  for 
all  his  way  of  doing  things  on  impulse,  he  never 
really  acts  except  on  calculation." 

"  O,  he  had  nothing  much  to  say — nothing  of 
importance,  that  is." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  Have  you  ever  no- 
ticed his  eyes  ?  " 

"  What  about  his  eyes?" 

*[  Why,  they  are  small,  and  have  a  quite  peculiar 
shallowness.  There  is  a  curious  vulpine  look  in 
them  at  times.  They  are  like  the  bright,  hard  eyts 
of  a  bird — a  bird  of  prey." 

"  O,  nonsense."  said  West.  "  Hume  is  a  very 
good  fellow  in  his  way." 


THE  QUESTION  79 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  a  way  I  wouldn't  trust  Aad 
you'll  be  wise  not  to  trust  ii  " 

"West  made  no  comment.  Presently  he  pushed 
from  him  his  untasted  breakfast. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  to  the  ministers'  meeting  this 
morning,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  put 
in  an  appearance." 

"  I  thought  you  had  given  it  up  altogether,"  said 
Helen.  "  You've  told  me  lots  of  times  that  it  was 
a  waste  of  time." 

"  Well,  I've  time  to  waste  this  morning,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  smile.  "  i  don't  feel  like  work.  And. 
after  all,  I  suppose  that  decency  demands  an  oc- 
casional visit  to  the  brethren." 

"  O,  weH,  if  it's  a  question  of  decency,"  she  said, 
with  a  laugh.  "  But  I  tHd  really  want  to  talk  with 
you  this  morning  alwut  the  Ladies'  Club.  They 
want  to  give  a  full-fledged  theatrical  performance 
tiext  month  in  aid  of  the  Musical  Fund,  and  the 
only  night  that  w  ill  suit  hem  appears  to  br  the 
prayer-meeting  nigiit.  So  here's  a  (piestion  of  de- 
cency, too,  you  see.  I  don't  particularly  object  to 
the  theatricals,  but  I  don't  like  them  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  the  prayer-meeting.   Do  ytwi?  " 

The  question,  so  abruptly  put,  «artled  West  into 
attention.  The  Ladies'  Club  wa.s  one  of  the  most 
powerful  social  organisations  of  the  Chur<"h.  He 
had  himself  esiaUishetl  it,  in  the  first  place,  for  the 


8o       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


purposes  of  literary  culture;  but  of  late  years  he 
had  exercised  no  restrains  over  it,  and  it  had  gone 
its  own  way,  with  the  result  that  its  primary  aim 
had  been  almost  wholly  forgotten. 

"  I  don't  see  very  well  what  to  say  to  them," 
said  Helen  plaintively.  "  They're  jtist  set  upon  this 
jrfay,  and  they  will  have  it  on  prayer-meeting  night, 
because  they  say  people  won't  come  out  twice  in 
the  week,  and  they  must  have  the  night  when  they 
are  accustomed  to  come  out.  And  tliey'ro  as  touchy 
as  can  be.  if  you  interfere  with  them.  They  seem 
to  think  the  church  exists  for  them,  and  they 
know  very  well  that  the  church  does  depend  on 
them  to  raise  a  good  deal  for  the  Musical  Fund,  and 
they  think  that  gives  them  the  right  of  dictation." 

West  still  remained  silent. 

"  Well,  vvlia*^  liave  you  to  say?  "  urged  Helen. 

"  I'll  think  it  over,"  he  said. 

But  wliile  he  spoke  it  was  not  so  much  of  Helen 
and  her  dilemma  he  was  thinking,  as  of  that  strange 
man  who  had  asked  him  the  night  before,  "  What 
are  churches  for?"  He  seemed  to  glide  between 
the  husband  and  wife  with  his  insistent  question. 
West  remembered  the  curious  phrase  by  which 
he  had  more  than  once  described  the  churches, — 
"  the  abodes  that  hear  the  name  of  Christ."  The 
quiet  irony  of  iht-  phrase  now  struck  hitn  for  the 
first  time.    Was  that,  indeed,  all  that  the  churches 


THE  QUESTION  8i 

were,  abodes  that  bore  the  outward  Name,  but  had 
no  inward  Presence? 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  afford  to  offend  them; 
you  had  better  remember  that  when  you  do  your 
thinking,"  Helen  continued.  "  You  see.  we've  let 
them  have  their  own  way  so  long,  that  they  are 
sure  to  resent  interference.  And  I  suppose,  after 
all,  they  are  useful,  and  I  don't  see  how  the  church 
could  do  without  them." 

"  No,  that  is  the  misery  of  it,"  said  West,  with 
sudden  abrupt  earnestness.    "  The  whole  thing  is 
indefensible.   We've  let  the  world  into  the  Church, 
and  the  Church  has  been  absorbed  by  the  world. 
We've  reduced  the  whole  thing  to  play-acting,  and 
what  wonder  that  the  people  now  think  that  it  is 
entirely  proper  that  the  play  should  displace  the 
prayer-meeting?  It  is  only  what  might  be  expected. 
It  is  a  just  punishment  for  our  lack  of  faith  in 
spiritual  principles.    Yes.  we  have  lost  faith  in 
them,  and  that  is  why  we  have  called  the  world  in 
to  help  us,  so  that  now  we  admit  without  shame  that 
the  Church  cannot  exist  at  all  without  the  partner- 
ship of  the  world.  O,  every  one  knows  the  situa- 
tion but  ourselves;  the  poor  know  it—we  don't  exist 
for  them;  workingmen  know  it-~they  have  no 
money  to  bring  with  them,  and  therefore  are  not 
wanted:  the  Ladies'  Club  know  it,  and  make  their 
demand  with  the  calm  assurance  of  conquerors. 


ta      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


Why  attempt  to  deny  it  ?  We  are  conquered.  The 
world  has  conquered  tis/' 

"Well,  I  never  I"  exclaimed  Helen,  in  astonish- 
ment. "  I  ntwtr  knew  you  felt  like  that." 

"Perhaps  I  didn't  know  myself — ^till  this  mo- 
ment," he  replied.  "  But  I  know  now.  And  I  feel 
as  if  the  strain  of  it  would  kill  me." 

"  O,  it's  not  as  bad  as  that,"  said  Helen  sooth- 
ingly. **  But  you  do  surprise  me.  1  begin  to  think 
blood  counts  for  everything  after  all.  You've 
reverted  to  type — ^you're  a  Puritan,  a  real  old- 
fashioned  pleasure-denouncing  Christian,  whom 
Jonathan  Edwards  would  have  certified  as 
sound." 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  was."  he  said  bitterly.  "  To 
myself  I  seem  much  more  like  an  impostor." 

"  1  believe  you  are  suffering  from,  a  brain-storm — 
that's  what's  the  matter,"  said  Helen. 

But  at  this  shaft  of  raillery  he  fled.  He  was  much 
too  sore  and  sensitive  to  endure  even  the  kindliest 
ridicule.  He  put  cm  his  hat,  and  walked  rapidly 
to  the  ministers'  meeting. 

During  the  walk  his  thoughts  were  busy.  Like 
most  men  who  live  an  intellectual  life,  he  was  much 
given  to  self-analysis.  It  niij^ht  even  lie  said  that 
be  took  undii-t,iiised  deli^Iit  in  tl.c  study  of  his  own 
emotions  and  the  movements  of  his  own  miud.  But 
it  was  not  so  much  deligiit  as  alarm  that  he  felt  this 


THE  QUESTION  83 

morning.    What  had  happened  to  him?    For  he 
was  conscious  of  some  incxpHcablc  change  in  him- 
self.   Why  had  he  spoken  as  he  had  about  tfic 
Church?  It  seemed  as  though  a  new  and  unknown 
self  had  spoken.   The  speech  had  been  wrung  out 
of  him.    And  then,  why  was  it  that  the  face  in 
the  picture  had  so  obsessed  his  imagination,  why 
was  it  that  the  words  uttered  by  that  strange  man 
in  the  darkened  church  had  taken  so  firm  a  hold 
upon  his  memory?   The  long  habit  of  self-analysis 
had  given  him,  so  he  supposed,  an  adequate  ac- 
quaintance with  himself.   He  would  have  described 
himself  as  a  person  of  clear  intelligence,  slenderly 
endowed  with  imaginative  faculties,  and  by  no 
means  liable  to  sudden  gusts  of  emotion;  a  bom 
hater  of  extravagance  in  thought,  a  bom  lover  of 
measure  and  decorum  in  conduct, — in  a  word  a  thor- 
oughly rational  man,  able  to  yield  his  mind  to  the 
most  lucid  light  of  reason.    But  now  it  seemed 
as  though  unsuspected  abysses  had  opened  in  his 
own  nature.  He  had  become  subject  to  a  new  play 
of  forces.   Above  all,  he  felt  as  if  some  web  of 
mystery  was  closing  round  him,  some  occult  and 
unknown  power  held  him  in  its  grip.  He  could  not 
understand  it. 

He  Was  still  pursuing  this  process  of  self-analysis 
wlien  he  arrived  at  the  hall  in  which  the  ministers' 
meeting  was  held. 


«4      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


This  hall  was  a  spacious,  dimly- lighted  room 
in  the  upper  story  of  a  building  filled  with  the  offices 
of  various  denominational  societies.  On  the  ground 
floor  was  a  large  bookstore,  which  was  a  favourite 
rendezvous  of  ministers.  It  was  the  custom  of  min- 
isters to  divide  their  attention  between  the  bookstore 
and  the  meeting  which  nominally  brought  them 
together. 

This  morning  few  ministers  were  in  the  bookstore, 
for  word  had  gone  out  that  an  English  minister 
of  some  distinction  was  to  address  the  meeting. 
When  West  went  upstairs  he  found  the  meeting 
already  begun. 

Some  tedious  minutes  of  a  previotis  meeting  were 
being  read  amid  a  general  buzz  of  conversation  and 
some  half-jocular  interruptions.  West  had  ample 
time  to  observe  the  assembly,  and  he  did  so  with 
some  curiosity,  because  he  so  seldom  visited  it. 

It  was  in  many  respects  a  notable  assembly.  The 
faces  were  almost  all  good,  and  in  some  instances 
striking.  Some  of  the  older  men  presented  a  truly 
venerable  appearance,  and  this  was  increased  by 
a  certain  air  of  dignified  tranquillity  which  char- 
acterised them.  But  as  West  closely  observed  this 
congregation  of  ministers,  it  grew  upon  him  that 
these  older  men  were  a  race  by  themselves.  The 
middle-aged  and  particularly  tlie  younger  men,  were 
of  a  wholly  different  type.    It  was  a  commoner, 


THE  QUESTION  8$ 

a  more  mundane,  type.  Most  of  them  wore  clothes 
distinctly  secular,  and  their  faces  were  secular,  too. 
They  had  the  brisk,  alert  air  of  men  of  business; 
their  eyes  were  frank  and  keen,  their  features  firmly 
moulded;  they  looked  resolute  and  capable.  But 
they  had  no  gleam  of  that  curious  tranquillity  which 
all  the  older  men  displayed.  Among  the  men  under 
fifty  there  was  not  a  single  face  that  could  have 
been  taken  for  the  face  of  a  poet  or  a  prophet. 

West,  observing  these  distinctions,  found  him- 
self enquiring  after  iheir  cause.    Suddenly  he  put 
his  hand  upon  the  clue.   These  older  men  were  in 
truth  priests;  the  younger  men  were  not.   In  all 
probability  the  older  men  ^ere  much  inferior  to 
the  younger  in  intellectual  qualities,  but  they  had 
dwelt  in  an  atmosphere  of  faith,  they  had  been  the 
custodians  of  Sacred  Mysteries,  and  acquaintance 
with  these  mysteries  had  cast  a  solemn  light  upon 
their  lives.   Yes,  it  was  that  which  was  wanting  in 
the  faces  of  the  younger  men— the  solemn  light  of 
mystery.   And  was  not  the  same  distinction  visible 
in  the  Church  itself?   Had  not  the  later  Church 
become  an  elaborate  organisation,  which  called  less 
and  less  for  the  function  of  the  priest,  and  nior«  and 
mori'  for  the  alert  faculties  of  the  business  manager? 
The  climged  type  was  always  the  fruit  of  the 
changed  environment.    These  .-.(culrrised  ministers, 
with  their  brisk  manners,  their  undreaming  eyes. 


86      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


their  effect  of  prosperous  capacity,  were  the  plain 
evidence  of  a  secularised  Church. 

West's  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  burst  of 
applause  that  greeted  the  rising  of  the  English  visi- 
tor, who  was  to  address  the  meeting. 

He  was  a  man  no  longer  young,  of  middle  stature, 
with  a  somewhat  remarkable  appearance.  The  face 
was  a  lonjj  oval,  without  Ix'ard  or  whisker;  the  fore- 
head liigli  and  unusually  broad,  crcnviu-tl  with  hair 
prematurely  white;  the  eyes  of  a  clear  grey;  the 
mcmth  kindly  but  firm.  He  was  accounted  brilliant, 
a  nuuiter  of  phrase  and  epigram.  His  later  ministry 
had  been  passed  among  cUtured  people  who  appre- 
cia'ed  these  gifts;  very  few  knew  or  remembered 
that  his  »iarlifr  ministry  had  been  devoted  to  the 
poor.  Still  fewer  knew  that  he  was  a  poet  who 
had  achieved  some  distinction,  and  might  have 
achieved  far  more  had  not  his  arduous  public  life 
absorbed  his  entire  mental  energies.  There  were 
many  present  this  morning  who  had  read  his  books, 
and  were  acquainted  with  his  reputation,  and  the 
expectation  of  a  brilliant  address  was  general. 

The  applause  sank  into  silence.  After  some  pre- 
ifminary  words,  excellently  plirased.  the  sjieaker  be- 
gan to  deal  not  with  any  prohlems  of  theology,  as 
was  common  on  these  occasions,  but  witli  rt-rtain 
vital  facts  in  his  own  ex[)erience.  The  face,  which 
had  seemed  impassive  in  repose,  became  illumined, 


THE  QUESTION  87 

the  eyes  shone,  the  full  rich  voice  became  treniulous 
M  with  feeling. 

"  What  was  a  Church  for?  "  This  proved  to  be 
the  real  theme  of  his  address,  and  West  recalled  at 
once  the  question  of  the  strange  man  in  the  church 
the  night  before,  and  felt  a  certain  shock  of  the 
coincidence. 

"  Why  did  it  exist?  What  was  it  meant  to  be 

and  do?" 

The  speaker  answered  his  own  questions  with  a 
narration  of  the  growth  of  his  own  mind.  Per- 
haps there  is  no  form  of  speech  so  deeply  affecting 
as  the  confessional,  when  the  confession  is  absolutely 
sincere.  This  is  why  a  rough  uncultured  speaker  in 
a  mission-hall  often  achieves  an  immediate  and  pro- 
found effect  denied  to  the  most  elaborate  eloquence. 
And  this  speaker  was  not  only  sincere,  but  he  had 
a  story  to  tell  which  struck  at  once  at  the  very 
heart  of  those  thoughts  and  difficulties  which  were 
more  familiar  to  his  hearers. 

He  began  by  describing  his  own  church  in  Eng- 
land, its  ideals,  its  temper,  its  character.  It  was  a 
church  built  by.  and  intended  for,  a  fairly  wealthy 
suburban  population.  It  had  a  tradition  of  culture 
of  which  it  was  proud.  He  also  had  shared  that 
pride.  But,  as  years  went  on,  he  became  dissatisfied 
with  this  temper.  He  saw  that  it  worked  con- 
tinually in  the  direction  of  complacency  and  ex- 


88       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


clusiveness.  Like  most  modem  churches  this 
church  developed  a  vast  array  of  organisations. 
It  made  ample  provision  for  the  social,  intellectual, 
and  even  the  physical  needs  of  its  own  people.  It 
became  famous  for  the  variety  and  number  of  its 
clubs,  which  appeared  to  serve  a  most  useful  pur- 
pose. But  they  gradually  usurped  the  spiritual 
functions  of  the  church,  though  so  imperceptibly 
that  no  alarm  was  felt.  The  time  came,  however, 
when  this  result  was  no  longer  negligible.  And, 
then  came  the  question,  "  What  is  a  Church  for?  " 

"Well,  that  question  came  to  me,"  said  the 
speaker,  "with  the  authority  of  a  revelation.  It 
dismayed  me.  It  beat  down  my  pride,  and  covered 
me  with  shame.  A  torturing  disquiet  seized  upon 
me.  I  had  thoughts  of  giving  up  the  ministry.  I 
went  into  the  pulpit  with  reluctance.  I  no  longer 
took  pleasure  in  my  own  sermons;  they  seemed  to 
me  travesties  of  some  nobler  fimction  of  which  I 
seemed  incapable." 

A  long  sigh  passed  over  the  meeting.  To  many 
men  there  some  elements  in  this  experience  were 
known— to  West  particularly. 
•  "  Very  slowly  the  answer  was  revealed  to  me," 
said  the  speaker.  "  But  it  came  at  last.  It  came 
when  I  tried  to  think  of  Jesus  Christ  in  my  place. 
What  would  He  do?  Would  He  spend  His  week 
in  building  up,  by  all  the  artifices  of  a  glittering 


THE  QUESTION 


89 


rhetoric,  sermons  that  merely  delighted  the  intel- 
lect? The  thought  was  inconceivable.  Would  He 
be  content  to  preach  to  one  narrow  section  of  the 
community,  to  people  bound  together  by  common 
tastes,  a  common  social  ideal,  but  widely  separated, 
even  wilfully  separated,  from  those  who  were  not 
their  social  kin?  Again  it  was  inconceivable.  Would 
He,  Whose  heart  was  so  set  upon  eternal  things  that 
all  other  things  appeared  trivial,  have  allowed  His 
Church  to  be  transformed  into  a  social  club,  catering 
for  the  pleasure  and  even  the  amusement  of  its 
members  ?  It  was  not  only  inconceivable,  but  pro- 
fanely so. 

"  What  would  He  do?  It  was  vain  to  plead  al- 
tered circumstances  and  modem  needs,  for  the 
Church  in  Christ's  day  was  not  at  all  unlike  the 
Church  in  our  day,  and  the  real  needs  of  men  are 
not  changed  by  time.  What  He  did  not  do  in 
Judea,  He  would  not  have  done  in  England.  And, 
again,  what  He  did  in  Judea  was  precisely  what  He 
would  have  done  in  England. 

"That  was  my  dilemma.  I  might  boldly  re- 
nounce the  authority  of  Christ,  which  I  dared  not 
do;  I  might  accept  it,  but  if  I  did  so,  I  must  obey 
it  implicitly.  And  to  accept  it  plainly  meant  this: 
to  attempt  to  do  in  England  the  kind  of  things 
Jesus  did  in  Judea.  My  decision  was  made.  I 
resolved  to  make  my  church  a  true  Church  of 


50      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Christ— to  act  in  everything  as  though  He  and  not 
I  presided  over  it. 

"  You  will  perhaps  say  that  this  is  an  impossible 
ideal.    All  ideals  are  impossible,  but  nevertheless 
our  highest  wisdom  is  to  strive  after  them.  You 
will  say  it  is  a  fantastic  ideal.    So  many  people 
told  me,  but  when  they  saw  the  ideal  at  work  they 
were  silent.    For  it  did  work— incredible  as  it 
sounds,  it  did  work.  I  began  to  do  the  things  Jesus 
did— in  a  very  humble  way,  of  course,  and  the  first 
result  was  lhat  my  own  Christ  came  back  to  me. 
He  was  no  longer  a  myth,  nor  a  figure  in  history, 
but  a  living  Presence.    The  next  result  was  that 
my  church  was  reformed.    The  poor  sought  its 
doors;  degraded  and  friendless  people  looked  to 
it  as  a  haven;  it  was  no  longer  a  preaching-station, 
but  a  spiritual  and  moral  Hospice.   And  from  the 
dry  bones  of  that  complacent  church  there  sprang 
up  an  army  of  men  and  women,  with  tender  hearts, 
with  a  zeal  for  humanitarian  service,  with  a  joy  in 
sacrifice.   For  one  brief  and  glorious  year  it  was 
as  though  Christ  Himself  came  visibly  to  His  tem- 
ple, healed  the  sick,  raised  the  dead,  wrought  mira- 
cles, and  proved  His  Gospel  the  power  of  God  in  the 
salvation  of  men." 

The  speaker  paused,  overcome  by  his  own  emo- 
tion. One  old  minister  shouted  "Glory!"  The 
word  clashed  like  a  cymbal  on  the  tense  air.  A 
loud  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the  room. 


THE  QUESTION  91 

"  Hush,"  said  the  speaker — "  I  have  but  a  word 
to  add.  I  was  long  unwise,  I  was  difficult  to  teach, 
but  at  last  I  have  learned  my  lesson.  I  know  now 
what  churches  are  for;  yes,  and  I  know  the  only 
ideal  that  can  help  us  to  make  them  what  they 
should  be.  It  is  to  realise  that  Christ  is  in  the 
world,  that  He  comes  to  us  in  every  poor  wayfaring 
man  who  needs  our  help. 

"  We  know  how  we  should  behave  if  He  were  to 
come  indeed,  in  His  own  person.  Ah,  if  a  rumour 
now  ran  round  the  world  that  He  had  truly  come 
again — that  His  sacred  feet  once  more  trod  the 
soil  once  stained  with  His  own  blood — th^t  He  was 
upon  the  road,  travelling  towards  us — that  He 
might  arrive  at  any  hour,  that  at  some  hour  not  far 
distant  He  must  arrive — ah,  if  we  knew  that,  with 
what  passionate  alarm  and  haste  we  should  alter 
our  behaviour,  alter  almost  everything  within  our 
churches,  knowing  full  well  tl.at  neither  we  nor 
they  were  ready  to  receive  Him." 

He  lifted  up  his  arms,  and  stood  so  for  a  mo- 
ment, absolutely  silent,  as  though  he  saw  the  vision 
he  described. 

"And  who  knows?"  he  said  at  last.  "Who 
knows  but  that  He  may  even  so  come  to-day,  to- 
night, before  to-morrow's  dawn?  'Be  ye  also 
ready,  for  in  such  an  hour  as  ye  think  not  the  Son 
of  Man  Cometh! ' " 


93      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

This  conclusion  of  the  address  was  totally  un- 
expected. Its  effect  was  what  is  often  called  electri- 
cal: and  in  this  instance  the  phrase  was  justified, 
for  it  was  as  though  a  flnsh  of  something  vivid 
and  penetrating  ran  from  man  to  man,  from  heart 
to  heart.    In  the  dim  light  of  the  room  the  faces 
of  the  men  had  a  strange  whiteness;  they  stood 
out  strained  and  eager.   In  some  the  look  was  won- 
der, in  some  appreh-  ision.    The  novel  expression 
slowly  relapsed  into  the  normal.    Men  began  to 
whisper  comments  to  each  other.   This  was  more 
than  West  could  bear.    He  foresaw  the  sort  of 
discussion  that  would  follow,  the  questions  that 
would  be  asked,  the  controversial  notes  that  would 
be  sounded— all  tending  to  destroy  the  effect  that 
had  been  produced,  to  drag  down  a  great  sincere 
utterance  till  it  was  soiled  with  the  mire  of  the 
commonplace.  Already  one  of  the  brethren,  notori- 
ous for  his  glibness,  and  always  the  first  to  speak 
in  these  clerical  debates,  was  on  his  feet  and  had 
begun  to  speak.    West  fled  at  the  first  sound  of 
that  strident  voice. 

"  Francis  West,  if  He  came  as  I  come,  wouldst 
thou  receive  Him  ?  " 

The  question  rang  anew  upon  his  ears.  It  rose 
above  the  clamour  of  New  York,  it  seemed  written 
on  the  air.   What  answer  could  he  give? 


V 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY 

WEST  walked  rapidly  and  aimlessly  up 
Fifth  Avenue  toward  the  Central  Park. 

The  address  to  which  he  had  just  lis- 
tened had  moved  him  deeply,  and  not  alone  by  its 
substance.  There  was  another  element  about  it 
which  produced  a  sense  of  mingled  fascination  and 
awe,  viz.,  its  extraordinary  application  to  his  own 
recent  experiences. 

Surely  ihtn  was  something  more  than  strange 
in  the  order  and  character  of  these  experiences. 
First,  there  had  come  the  mysterious  arrest  laid  on 
Stockmar's  speech,  and  his  subsequent  confession 
of  what  he  believed  to  be  its  cause.  Then  there  had 
followed  the  impression  created  by  the  picture  in 
Hume's  house,  and,  following  this,  the  conversa- 
tion with  that  strange  man  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  Sundjy  evening  service.  Now  there  was  this 
address  at  the  Ministers'  Meeting,  so  poignantly 
sincere  in  itself,  so  unexpected,  and  in  its  closing 
appeal  so  startling.  The  relation  of  these  things 
to  each  other  had  a  kind  of  logic  which  could  not 

93 


94       A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

be  accidental.  It  was  true  that  strange  coincidences 
happened  in  human  life;  biography  and  history 
were  full  of  them,  and  novelists  delighted  in  them. 
But  these  events  were  not  to  be  explained  by  the 
law  of  coincidence.  The  reason  itself  rejected  such 
a  theory.  They  fitted  too  accu'  :  '^ly;  they  were  like 
the  developments  in  some  g  musician's  theme, 
each  separate,  but  each  dependent  on  the  other, 
growing  out  of  the  other,  and  each  carrying  on  the 
same  central  thought  to  more  passionate  expression. 
They  displayed  not  coincidence,  but  sequence  'hey 
were  progressive  in  their  nature,  and  overwnelm- 
ingly  cumulative  in  their  effect. 

Here  was  a  solution  of  his  perplexities;  but  the 
mind  no  sooner  discerned  it  than  it  ran  back  like 
a  retreating  tide  to  the  shores  of  cold  rationality. 
For  what  did  such  a  solution  imply?  Nothing  less 
than  the  pressure  of  an  unseen  Hand  upon  the  keys 
of  life.  Such  a  conclusion  would  not  have  seemed 
novel  to  the  Puritan,  and  it  was  a  commonplace 
to  the  religious  mystic.  Each  would  have  readily 
admitted  the  action  of  some  external  Power  upon 
the  personal  life — ^the  unseen  Hand  upon  the  key- 
board. In  a  sense,  no  doubt,  this  was  true;  even 
writers  so  dissimilar  as  Milton,  George  Eliot,  and 
Kipling,  had  made  this  admission  about  their  writ- 
ings. But  this  was  different.  It  was  not  the  play 
of  the  Eternal  mind  on  the  plastic  surface  of  indi- 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  gs 

vidual  genius;  it  was  a  series  of  deliberate  events 
pressing  upon  a  humble  individual  life.  Could  h** 
believe  this  to  be  possible? 

His  eye  at  that  moment  was  taking  in  the  brilliant 
spectacle  of  Fifth  Avenue  on  a  sunny  afternoon. 
Here  was  the  usual  throng  of  carriages  and  motors; 
the  hurrying  pedestrians,  the  familiar  tumult  of 
human  life;  the  high  buildings  packed  with  human 
creatures  like  mites  in  a  cheese,  the  indistinguishable 
throngs  at  the  corners  of  the  streets,  flushed  faces 
at  the  open  windows  of  hotels  and  restaurants,  sat- 
isfied faces  of  men  and  women  in  carriar^e  sur- 
veying life  with  the  comforting  disdain  of  sola- 
tion;  the  noise  of  coming  and  going,  the  sense  of 
individual  concern,  of  pressing  private  aim  in  each 
of  these  ciphers  of  the  endless  sum;  and  who  among 
them  had  any  sense  of  an  unseen  Hand  upon  the 
'^f  life?  Who  could  conceive  each  of  these 
wuttering  creatures  as  centres  of  a  vast  web 
destinies  and  influences  which  reached  beyond 
the  stars?  They  seemed  so  satisfied  with  their 
environment,  so  secure,  so  entirely  at  home  among 
things  visible.  Let  West  tell  his  story  to  any  one 
of  these,  and  he  would  laugh  in  his  face.  Let 
him  describe  to  them  the  pressures  of  an  external 
Power  upon  his  spirit,  and  they  would  stare  at  him 
as  a  maniac. 

It  is  so  the  world  always  rushes  in  upon  our 


96      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

hours  of  sacred  intuition,  trampling  out  the  torch  of 
truth,  overturning  the  new-built  altar  of  our  faith; 
that  world  which  is  forever  jealous  of  eternity,  and 
afraid  lest  we  should  learn  the  secret  of  our  birth; 
for  the  world  knows  well  that  he  who  knows  that 
secret  has  escaped  its  bondage,  and  broken  the  se- 
duction of  things  temporal.  "  Keep  men  ignorant, 
so  shalt  thou  I:eep  them  slaves  "  has  always  been 
the  axiom  of  oppressors.  And  it  is  so  that  the 
world  regards  each  one  of  us. 

But,  although  West  could  find  no  immediate 
reply  to  the  challenge  of  these  thoughts,  there  was 
one  plain  duty  which  had  become  increasingly  clear 
to  him.  He  could  at  least  recover  for  himself 
the  lost  function  of  the  priest.  He  could  and  must 
use  these  experiences  of  his  for  the  purification  of 
his  iueals.  He  could  and  must  strive  to  make 
his  church  a  true  abode  of  Christ.  And  with  that 
thought  there  came  the  recollection  of  the  Ladies' 
Qub. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  but  a  few  min- 
utes' walk  from  the  house  of  Mrs.  Lorimer,  the 
president  of  the  club,  and  he  resolved  to  call  on  her 
at  once. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  was  the  sister  of  Payson  Hume,  to 
whom  she  bore  a  softened  physical  resemblance. 
She  was  a  large,  fair  woman,  with  exceedingly 
bright  vivacious  eyes,  and  genial  manners;  but  be- 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  97 


neath  these  outward  attractions  there  was  concealed 
a  strong  will,  capable  of  much  obstinate  selfish- 
ness. Her  main  point  of  difference  from  her 
brother  was  her  attitude  to  life.  Payson  Hume 
found  his  one  real  pleasure  in  the  acctunulation  of 
money;  Mrs.  Lorimer  found  hers  in  spending  it. 
During  her  husband's  lifetime  she  had  had  little  op- 
portunity of  acquiring  this  pleasant  art.  Augustus 
Lorimer  had  been  not  only  avaricious,  but  penu- 
rious. He  had  been  content  with  a  dull  house  and 
the  society  of  dull  people;  changing  standards  of 
life  did  not  in  the  least  affect  him,  and  wealth  pro- 
duced no  alteration  in  his  habits.  When  he  died, 
his  widow  speedily  avenged  herself  for  her  long 
arrears  of  deprivation.  She  found  herself  in  the 
possession  of  wealth,  and  she  gave  her  entire  at- 
tention to  the  best  method  of  making  it  the  means  of 
pleasure.  It  would  be  a  tedious  task  to  follow  all 
the  manoeuvres  which  at  last  landed  her  in  the  realm 
of  fashionable  society;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  she 
reached  it  much  more  quickly  than  most  persons 
in  her  position,  for  she  was  adroit,  astute,  and  in- 
domitable, as  well  as  attractive.  One  necessary  part 
of  her  programme  was  to  become  a  member  of  a 
fashionable  church,  and,  after  careful  delilieration, 
she  selected  West's.  There  she  soon  became  a  social 
leader.  When  the  Ladies'  Club  was  organised  .she 
became  its  president,  and  she  had  been  so  ever  since. 


98      A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

She  had  always  liked  West  for  his  quiet  air  of 
good  breeding;  he  had  liked  her  for  her  social 
charm.  There  was  in  her,  indeed,  very  little  else 
to  like;  for  West  knew  perfectly  well  that  religion 
sat  upon  her  lightly,  that  her  culture  was  entirely 
superficial,  that  her  intelligence  was  limited.  He 
respected  her  capacity  indeed;  but  there  is  noth- 
ing likeable  in  mere  capacity;  it  may  excite  admira- 
tion,  but  it  does  not  attract  friendship. 

Mrs.  Lorimer  met  him  in  the  hall  with  an  al- 
most eflFusive  welcome. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Dr.  West,"  she  said,  "  how  glad 
I  am  to  see  you.  I  have  been  positively  hoping  you 
would  call,  for  I  want  a  little  quiet  conversation 
with  you." 

"  And  I  with  you,"  said  West. 

"  Really  ?  Why,  that  is  quite  a  good  example  of 
telepathy,  isn't  it?  But  I  fear  we  must  wait  a 
little  while  for  our  talk,  for  I've  a  few  friends 
here  this  afternoon.  You  know  them  all,  I  think. 
Walk  right  in,  and  let  me  give  you  some  tea." 

West  entered  the  long  double  drawing-room 
which  lay  to  the  right  of  the  hall.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that,  though  it  was  an  afternoon  of 
bright  sunshine,  the  blinds  were  drawn  and  the 
electric  lights  were  burning  in  the  room.  The  front 
drawing-room  was  empty,  but  the  back  drawing- 
room  was  full  of  people.  Half  a  dozen  small  square 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY 


99 


tables  filled  this  room;  on  each  delicately  shaded 
lights  burned,  around  them  fashionably  dressed 
women  sat.  Entering  suddenly  from  the  strong 
sunlight  into  this  dim  room,  he  was  at  first  un- 
able to  recognise  Mrs.  Lorinwr's  guests.  A  mo- 
ment later  he  was  aware  that  they  were  nearly  all 
members  ot  his  own  congregation,  and  that  they 
were  playing  bridge. 

They  looked  up  at  his  entrance,  nodded  slightly, 
smiled,  and  were  at  once  re-absorbed  in  the  game. 
Each  face  wore  a  rapt,  intense  lode,  in  each  the 
features  were  sharpened  by  an  unwholesome  eager- 
ness. A  stranger,  ignorant  of  their  employment, 
might  have  supposed  that  these  pale,  sharp- featured 
women,  with  their  air  of  silent,  intense  absorption, 
were  engaged  in  some  occult  rite.  They  spoke 
in  low  voices  from  time  to  time;  there  was  r  t  other 
sound  save  the  occasional  rustle  of  silk,  as  4ayer 
shifted  her  position,  or  stretched  out  a  wh.te  arm 
to  seize  her  winnings.  The  impression  of  the  scene 
was  disagreeaUe.  A  met>*  tnectatoi,  even  though 
he  were  but  moderately  sensitive  to  aesthetic  ideals 
and  had  no  sense  of  morals  at  all,  must  have  recog- 
nised something  essentially  false  and  meretricious 
in  this  perfumed  room  from  which  the  daylight  was 
excluded,  in  these  silent  women  whose  intent  eyes 
watched  with  such  eagerness  the  fortunes  of  the 
cards.   To  West,  conscious  of  the  stirrings  of  a 


100     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


new  life  within  his  soul,  the  scene  was  more  than 
meretricious;  it  was  unutterably  repugnant. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  perfectly  aware  that 
this  repugnance  was  newborn  and  novel.  What 
right  had  he  to  assume  suddenly  the  authority  of  a 
censor?  Mrs.  Lorinier's  card-parties  were  a  social 
commonplace.  He  himself  had  taken  part  in  them 
occasionally.  As  for  the  Ladies'  Club,  why,  there 
was  scarcely  one  member  of  it  who  was  not  an 
ardent  bridge  player.  But  this  afternoon  he  was 
seeing  all  things  in  an  altered  perspective,  and  with 
purged  vision.  As  he  looked  on  the  scene  he  was 
for  the  first  time  conscious  of  its  appalling  vulgarity. 
Disguise  the  unpleasant  fact  how  one  might,  yet 
it  was  clear  that  the  master-motive  in  the  breasts 
of  all  these  women  was  mere  common  greed — the 
greed  that  makes  the  bootblack  gamble  on  a  horse- 
race, the  clerk  rob  his  employer  to  take  options  in 
stock,  the  roulette-players  throng  the  tables  at 
Monte  Carlo.  And  there  was  another  impression, 
too,  which  was  even  stronger — ^the  degrading  trivi- 
ality of  the  scene.  What  sort  of  mind's  were  these 
that  on  an  afternoon  of  sunshine,  in  the  heart  of 
a  busy  and  earnest  world,  could  prefer  a  curtained 
room,  and  spend  themselves  in  the  mean  and  fever- 
ish anxieties  of  a  game  of  chance?  There  was 
something  in  Jie  act  that  outraged  self-respect,  tar- 
nished the  modesty  of  nature,  scorned  the  nobler 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  loi 


functions  of  the  mind.  To  women  such  as  these 
no  sense  of  the  splendour  and  the  gravity  of  human 
life  was  possible. 

He  drank  his  tea  in  silence,  Mrs.  Lorimer  mean- 
while going  from  group  to  group  with  soft  tread, 
and  from  time  to  time  addressing  him  in  whispers. 

"  They  have  nearly  finished,"  she  said  at  last. 

There  was  a  long  sigh,  a  rustle  of  silk,  a  move- 
ment of  chairs,  and  then  an  eager  buzz  of  conversa- 
tion. The  game  was  over. 

"  Ah,  Dr.  West,  what  a  pity  you  were  not  here 
with  us,"  said  a  young  girl.  "  It's  quite  the  most 
exciting  game  I've  had  for  weeks." 

Others  said  the  same  thing,  with  parrot-like  in- 
sistence, as  they  shook  hands  with  him.  It  had 
indeed  been  a  famous  game;  some  hundreds  of  dol- 
lars had  changed  hands;  never  before  had  the  stakes 
been  so  high  or  the  play  so  daring.  One  by  one 
they  departed,  some  radiant,  some  unusually  quiet, 
all  betraying  in  their  hurried,  nervous  manner  the 
strain  they  had  endured.  At  last  West  found  him- 
self alone  with  Mrs.  Lorimer. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Doctor,"  she  began,  "  we'll 
have  our  little  talk  in  peace.  But  first  let  me  dis- 
charge my  obligations.  I  always  levy  a  small  tax  on 
my  Monday  bridge  parties  for  the  benefit  of  our 
Musical  Fund — no  one  objects,  and  in  a  year,  you 
know,  it  amounts  to  a  good  deal.  Let  me  see — ^this 


loa     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


afternoon  has  brought  exactly  twenty  dollars.  So 
you  see,  even  in  our  pleasures  we  don't  forget  our 
dear  church." 

"  Will  you  pardon  me?  "  he  replied.  "  I  cheer- 
fully acknowledge  your  kindness,  but  I  must  not 
take  that  money.  I  really  cannot." 

"  And  pray,  why  not  ?  "  she  answered.  "  You've 
taken  it  before.  You  are  surely  not  going  to  begin 
a  tirade  about  'tainted  money,'  are  you?  Ah, 
that  reminds  me  of  what  a  man  said  the  other  day 
on  that  subject.  He  said  the  only  fault  in  tainted 
money  was  that  it  *  ain't  enough.' " 

She  leaned  forward,  with  a  confidential  air,  to 
tell  her  little  story,  and  closed  it  with  a  light  laugh. 

"No,  it's  not  altogether  that,  Mrs.  Lorimer," 
he  answered.  "  It's  the  whole  thing.  How  can  I 
put  it  to  you?" 

"  How  indeed ! "  she  replied  with  faint  irony. 

"O,  I  know  you  have  good  cause  to  criticise 
me,"  he  said,  "  but  you  would  have  cause  to  despise 
me,  too,  if  I  didn't  give  you  my  honest  thought 
on  this — and  some  other  matters." 

'.'Am  I  in  for  a  bad  scolding?  Well,  I  don't 
know  what  I've  done,  but  I'm  ready  to  listen  to 
you." 

She  was  still  smiling,  but  there  '.vas  a  tinge  of 
acerbity  and  mockery  in  her  tone  as  she  added, 
"  One  should  always  listen  with  respect  to  the  ad- 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  103 


monition  of  one's  spiritual  pastors  and  teachers,  I 
suppose." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I'm  qualified  to  give  you 
admonition,"  he  replied,  with  quiet  dignity.  "  At 
all  events,  that  is  not  my  intention.  But  I  would 
like,  if  you  will  let  me,  to  give  you  the  doubtful 
benefit  of  some  thoughts  that  press  upon  my  mind." 

"  I  am  all  attention,  pray  go  on."  She  yawned 
slightly,  and  settled  herself  into  her  chair,  with 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 

"  Yawning  is  only  permitted  in  church,"  he  said, 
with  a  return  of  his  habitual  manner  of  pleasant 
irony. 

"  I  apologise,"  she  flashed  back.  "  But  it  is  your 
own  fault,  if  you  will  preach  sermons  in  private." 

"  My  sermon  shall  be  brief,  at  least,  and  I  think 
it  will  not  be  tedious." 

He  once  more  became  grave. 

"  Well,  let  us  be  serious,"  he  continued.  *'  This 
is  the  substance  of  what  I  want  to  say.  During  the 
last  few  hours  I  have  had  special  occasion  to  think 
seriously  about  the  Ladies'  Club,  and  indeed  about 
several  other  things  in  the  life  of  the  church.  It 
seems  to  me  that  we  have  all  got  upon  a  wrong 
tack.  I  am  in  the  main  responsible,  and  any  words 
of  censure  I  may  utter  come  home  to  me  more  than 
to  any  other.  Let  the  Ladies'  Oub  serve  for  an 
illustration  of  what  I  mean.   When  it  began,  its 


104     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

chief  aim  was  to  help  forward  the  social  and  in- 
tellectual life  of  the  women  of  the  church.  In  those 
days  you  were  content  to  study  Browning,  and  so 
forth.  Il  gradually  became  more  social  and  less 
intellectual  in  its  aim.  First  there  were  luncheons, 
then  dances ;  now  we  have  got  to  bridge  and  theatri- 
cals. A  good  many  of  the  older  folk  objected;  but 
there  was  always  the  bribe  offered  that  by  these 
means  you  raised  money  for  the  church.  The  last 
thing  I  hear  is  that  you  want  to  perform  a  play 
on  the  church  premises,  and  that  no  night  will 
suit  you  but  the  night  long  since  fixed  for  the  prayer- 
meeting.  Mis.  Lorimer,  we  must  call  a  halt  some- 
where. A  church  cannot  expect  the  respect  of  the 
community,  and  :annot  retain  the  respect  of  its 
own  adherents,  if  it  does  not  at  least  set  its  spiritual 
ideals  above  all  other  ideals.  This  is  a  contest 
between  the  spiritual  and  the  worldly.  I  am  on  the 
side  of  the  spiritual.  Mrs.  Lorimer,  the  play  must 
not  take  place,  and  the  Ladies'  Club,  unless  it  will 
consent  to  a  radical  change  of  programme,  must 
be  dissolved." 

"  Well,  I  will  say  one  thing  for  your  sermon — 
it  certainly  is  not  tedious,  though  I  find  it  suffi- 
ciently amazing.  You  have  certainly  succeeded 
in  giving  me  a  bad  nervous  shock." 

He  was  silent,  and  his  silence  was  interpreted  as 
an  affront.   Mrs.  Lorimer's  face  flushed,  and  her 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  105 


hands  trembled.  Her  fixed  smile,  h^r  air  cf  pleas- 
ant badinage,  her  studiously  graceful  manners  all 
vanished,  as  by  a  touch  of  magic.  A  hard  lo^^k  came 
into  her  eyes,  her  mouth  tightened,  and  the  essen- 
tial woman,  wilful,  passionate,  selfish,  and  coarse 
in  grain,  suddenly  appeared, 

"  And  you  would  dictate  to  me — ^you?  "  she  said, 
in  a  loud  voice. 

Then  she  recollected  herself.  The  venomous 
thing  that  had  looked  from  her  eyes  an  instant 
recoiled  and  vanished.   She  laughed. 

"  O,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  saio.  "  It  was  an 
exclamation  born  of  nervous  shock.  3u*^  let  us 
continue  this  most  interesting  conversation.  Let 
me  see — where  were  we?  You  object  to  dances, 
to  bridge,  to  theatricals  in  connection  with  the 
church.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  haf  led 
to  this  extraordinary  change  of  view,  for  hitlierto, 
if  my  memory  serves  me,  you  have  been  quite  with 
us  in  all  these  things." 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you — you  have  a  right  to  know. 
Last  Sunday  night  I  had  a  question  put  .0  me  at 
the  close  of  the  service,  '  What  are  churches  for  ? ' 
The  man  who  put  the  question  appeared  to  be  a  poor 
workingman.  This  morning  the  same  question  was 
put  to  me  again  by  a  speaker  whose  general  view 
of  life  is  far  from  narrow,  and  whose  distinction 
entitles  him  to  respect.  It  seems  that  both  he  and 


io6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

that  poor  workingman  agree  in  their  conception 
of  what  a  church  is  for.  It  exists  for  one  thing 
alone:  to  nourish  the  spiritual  life  of  the  world, 
to  train  men  and  women  in  sympathy  that  will  lead 
to  social  service,  to  help  them  to  realise  the  pres- 
ence of  God.  It  does  not  exist  to  minister  to  the 
pleasures  and  frivolities  of  a  passing  world.  If 
it  profits  by  them,  it  is  at  the  price  of  its  own  be- 
trayal. Mrs.  Lorimer,  will  yofi  let  me  put  the 
whole  question  in  its  plainest  form:  do  you  think 
Jesus  Christ  lived  and  died  to  produce  such  a  church 
as  mine  has  been?  Do  you  think  that  He  would 
permit  for  an  instant  such  things  as  we  have  sanc- 
tioned? Do  you  think  that  He  who  drove  the 
money-changers  from  the  temple,  although  their 
business  was  in  part  religious,  because  their  very 
presence  had  defiled  it — do  you  think  He  would 
accept  for  His  work  money  gained  by  bridge,  and 
by  theatrical  disjdays?  And  it  is  His  church,  re- 
member. It  bears  His  name.  We  have  proudly 
called  it  the  Church  of  the  Redemption,  And  be- 
cause i  is  His,  He  will  surely  come  to  it  one  day; 
and  what  will  you  and  I  say  to  Him  when  He 
comes  ?  " 

"  When  He  comes — why,  of  course  He  isn't  com- 
ing," she  retorted.  "I  did  not  suppose  that  any 
one  believed  in  such  a  thing.  And  besides,  the 
world  has  moved  a  long  way  since  that  day." 


• 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  107 

"Moved,  yes;  but  in  what  direction?" 
"Toward  freedom,  of  course.    I'm  sure  I've 
heard  you  say  so  often  enough.    Didn't  you  tell 

us  years  ago  that  the  church  had  just  as  good  a 
right  to  good  music  as  the  opera-house — and  so  we 
engaged  a  quartette?  Didn't  you  tell  us  that  the 
proper  spirit  of  the  church  was  inclusive,  not  ex- 
clusive, and  that  we  were  quite  entitled  to  make 
certain  forms  of  pleasure  part  of  our  programme,  as 
well  as  certain  forms  of  piety?  O,  I  have  an  ex- 
cellent memory.  You  have  builded  better  than  you 
knew.  Behold,  your  disciple." 

"I  admit  it,"  he  replied.  "I  admit  it  with 
sorrow." 

"  Why  sorrow.  Am  I  a  person  to  be  pitied  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  Christ  would  pliiy  us  both  if  He 
were  here,"  said  West. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why.  No  one  can  accuse 
me  of  not  being  a  good  churchwoman.  I  have 
given  a  vast  amount  of  time  to  the  work  of  the 
church,  and  it  does  strike  me  as  remarkably  un- 
grateful to  tell  me  now  that  I  am  an  object  ot 
pity." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Lorimer,  don't  you  see  what  I  mean  ? 
Don't  you  see  that  I  am  not  blaming  you,  but  my- 
self? It  is  a  question  of  right  and  wrong.  I  re- 
peat that  we  have  all  gone  wrong  in  our  church 
methods,  and  I  more  than  you  or  any  one  else, 


io8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

because  I  have  misled  you.  I  am  resolved  to  re- 
trace my  steps.  You  followed  me  in  my  error; 
won't  you  follow  me  now,  in  my  attempt  to  retrieve 

my  error  ? " 

"I  don't  admit  the  error — that  is  where  your 
argument  fails,"  she  replied,  in  a  cold,  obstinate 
voice.  "  You  may  have  had  some  special  illumina- 
tion; the  trouble  is  that  I  have  had  none.  Don't 
expect  me  to  act  as  if  I  had." 

"  If  you  were  to  see  Jesus  Christ,  to  really  see 
Him,  for  an  instant,  do  you  think  you  could 
say  " 

"  O,  pray  let  us  close  this  painful  conversation," 
she  interrupted.  "  It's  getting  too  preposterous,  too 
fantastic  altogether." 

"  I  know  a  man  who  saw  Him  no  later  than  two 
days  ago,"  said  West,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  know— but  I  will  not  listen  to  such  non- 
sense. You  have  said  a  great  many  strange  things 
to  me,  no»,  let  me  say  some  plain  things  to  you. 
You  may  turn  your  back  on  all  you/  past  teach- 
ing, if  you  please:  I  shall  not  do  so,  because  you 
were  at  least  sane  in  that  teaching,  and  I  begin 
to 'question  if  you  are  any  longer  sane.  Moreover, 
that  teaching  suited  me,  the  pre£:<;nt  does  not,  and 
I  appeal  from  Philip  drunk  to  Philip  sober.  As 
for  the  Ladies'  Club,  it  will  go  on  precisely  as  it 
has  done  in  the  past.  It  includes  all  the  best  families 


THE  BRIDGE  PARTY  109 

in  the  church,  and  what  they  demand  the  church  is 
bound  to  grant.  If  you  choose  to  set  yourself  in 
opposition  to  the  church,  it  will  not  be  the  church 
that  will  suffer  in  the  conflict.  I  hate  to  say  these 
things,  but  it  is  better  that  I  should  say  them  to  you 
privately  than  that  others  should  do  so  publicly,  as 
^ney  soon  will." 

There  was  a  real  trace  of  sincerity  in  her  voice, 
even  a  touch  of  feeling.  And  in  her  counsel,  how- 
ever bluntly  put,  there  was  true  worldly  sagacity,  as 
West  silently  admitted.  He  knew  perfectly  well 
that  Mrs.  Lorimer's  enmity  would  be  fatal  to  him. 
He  could  not  be  offended  with  her:  after  all,  was 
she  not,  as  she  had  said,  his  disciple?  Here  was  the 
finished  product  of  his  ministry,  he  reflected  sadly: 
a  woman  thoroil^hly  hard  and  worldly,  without 
spiritual  sensitiveness,  avid  for  every  form  of  pleas- 
ure, whose  religion  was  at  best  a  mere  social  asset. 
But  whatever  her  enmity  meant,  he  felt  he  must 
endure  it.  He  feared  it  indeed;  he  was  not  yet  so 
lifted  out  of  his  old  grooves  of  thought  as  to  be 
freed  from  fear.  Perhaps  his  courage  in  this  crisis 
was  all  the  more  heroic  because  it  existed  in  spite 
of  fear 

"Mrs.  Lorimer,"  he  said,  "I  perfectly  under- 
stand your  position;  it  only  remains  that  you  should 
understand  mine.  I  can  offer  you  no  compromise. 
I  must  take  my  own  cotirse.  If  from  to-day  you 


110     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

and  I  stand  on  different  sides,  remember  this — with 
me  it  is  a  question  of  principle  which  I  dare  not 
disregard." 

"  My  friend,"  she  said,  with  an  almost  scornful 
emphasis,  "  do  you  know  that  you  are  about  to  ruin 
your  career? " 

"  A  ruined  career  is  not  the  worst  thing  that  can 
happen  to  a  man,"  he  replied.  "A  much  worse 
thing  is  a  ruined  soul." 

They  stood  facing  each  other  in  perfect  silence  for 
a  moment.  A  door  closed  in  the  hall;  it  seemed 
like  an  explosion.  A  pile  of  cards,  left  carelessly 
upon  the  edge  of  a  table,  fell  to  the  ground  with 
a  noise  that  seemed  unnatural.  And — was  it  all 
imagination — upon  the  tense  air  once  more  that 
searching  question  trembled,  "  Francis  West,  if  I 
came,  as  once  I  came,  wouldst  thou  receive  Me  ?  " 

West  bowed  his  head. 

A  piercing  sweetiKiS  flooded  all  his  nature  for 
one  brief  moment,  an  arrowy  flame  shot  through 

him. 

"  Yes,  Lord,"  he  murmured.  "  Thou  knowcst 
all  things,  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  Thee." 


VI 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD 

WEST  left  Mrs.  Lorimer's  house  in  a  mood 
of  strange  elation.  He  was  conscious 
that  the  currents  of  his  life  were 
turned  into  a  new  channel.  His  interview  with 
Mrs.  Lorimer  had  had  one  unforeseen  effect :  it  had 
cleared  his  thought.  It  had  acted  upon  his  mind  as 
a  sudden  touch  acts  upon  a  vase  of  water  near  the 
freezing-point;  it  had  precipitated  the  process  of 
cohesion.  The  fluid  elements  of  thought  had  crys- 
tallised into  definite  conviction. 

There  were  two  things  which  he  saw  with  entire 
distinctness.  The  first  was  that  he  had  taken  up 
a  definite  position.  He  had  avowed  his  faith  in 
Stockmar's  story.  He  had  admitted  to  himself  the 
play  of  certain  unknown  forces  on  his  own  soul, 
which,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  he  named  super- 
natural. The  voices  he  had  heard  were  real  voices, 
and  he  meant  to  obey  them.  The  second  thing  he 
saw  was  that  no  one  would  understand  the  new  mo- 
tives which  guided  his  conduct.  People  of  Mrs. 
Lorimer's  type,  people  like  Payson  Hume,  what 

III 


iia     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

could  be  expected  of  them  but  scornful  incredulity 
and  bitter  opposition?  And  they  represented  the 

majority,  the  majority  even  in  his  own  church. 
He  could  hardly  blame  them;  they  would  but  act 
toward  him  as  he  himself  would  have  acted  a  week 
ago  toward  any  one  who  had  come  to  him  with  a 
similar  message.  He  would  be  made  to  drink  the 
cup  of  scorn;  he  would  become  the  object  of  deri- 
sion, he  would  be  deserted  by  those  from  whom  he 
had  received  a  thousand  kindnesses.  Nevertheless, 
his  mood  of  elation  held;  and  he  knew  that  its 
source  lay  deep  beyond  the  reach  of  circumstance, 
in  the  assurance  of  his  own  spiritual  freedom. 
He  knew  the  truth;  the  truth  had  made  him 
free. 

"  For  nation  shall  rise  again.<=t  nation,  and  king- 
dom s^inst  kingdom,  and  there  shall  be  famines 
and  earthquakes  in  divers  places.  Then  shall  they 
deliver  up  one  another,  and  shall  hate  one  another, 
and  because  iniquity  shall  be  multiplied  the  love 
of  many  shall  wax  cold.  And  then  shall  they  see 
the  Son  of  Man  coming  in  clouds,  and  with  great 
power  and  glory." 

The  words  so  often  read,  so  little  pondered,  rang 
upon  his  memory  as  he  walked.  How  clear,  how 
positive  they  were !  With  what  a  secure  emphasis — 
surely  the  emphasis  of  absolute  knowledge— did  He 
speak  who  uttered  them  I   And  they  were  words 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  113 

spoken  too  upon  the  eve  of  death,  when  vision  was 
clearest,  when  even  for  the  humblest  man  the  in- 
stinct for  truth  is  strongest.  Who  could  imagine 
the  Saviour  of  the  world,  who  had  made  the  claim 
not  only  that  He  told  the  Truth  Iwtt  was  the  Truth, 
departing  from  the  world  with  a  lie  upon  His  lips? 
And  whatever  else  the  reporters  of  His  words 
omitted,  they  all  reported  these  solemn  sayings.  To 
them  they  must  have  seemed  much  more  incredible 
than  to  later  ages,  for  they  saw  only  a  Galilean 
peasant  where  other  ages  saw  One  essentially  divine; 
yet  they  reported  them,  realising  that  they  were 
the  last  bequest  of  truth  from  One  who  had  never 
lied.  Ah,  if  these  tremendous  words  had  been  dis- 
credited and  forgotten,  was  not  the  reason  this,  that 
men  no  longer  willed  to  believe  them,  and  that  as 
He  Himself  said,  *'  The  love  of  many  had  waxed 
cold  "  ? 

To  believe  the  incredible  always  means  encounter 
with  a  hostile  world.  West  realised  that  primary 
law  of  all  spiritual  freedom  as  he  walked  that 
afternoon  along  Fifth  Avenue,  reflecting  on  his 
inter/iew  with  Mrs.  Lorimer.  And  he  realised,  also, 
that  the  presence  of  such  persons  as  Mrs.  Lorimer 
in  the  Church,  was  the  tacit  evidence  of  the  Church's 
own  decay  of  faith,  its  repudiation  of  the  unseen, 
its  reconcilement  to  the  world.  A  world  no  longer 
hostile  to  the  Church  implied  a  Ciiurch  from  whose 


114     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


teaching  and  example  the  world  had  nothing  left 
to  fear. 

•  •  •  •  • 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  these  thoughts  that  he  had 
come  to  his  own  house  almost  unwittingly.  As  he 
entered  it  his  elation  diminished.  The  narrow  hall, 
hung  with  photogravures  of  places  and  pictures  seen 
and  loved  in  foreign  travel,  the  dinner-table  with  its 
refinement  of  flowers  and  white  napery  and  gleam- 
ing crystal,  the  glimpse  of  library  shelves  in  the 
adjoining  room,  crowded  with  books  that  long  had 
fed  his  mind — all  these  symbols  of  a  life  governed 
in  every  detail  by  use  and  custom,  suddenly  held 
his  mind  like  a  vice.  The  power  of  the  habitual 
gripped  him;  it  fell  upon  his  spirit  with  a  dull 
weight,  it  quenched  the  fire  of  his  soul.  He  was 
like  a  man  who,  after  long  travel  in  the  limitless 
freedom  of  mountain  or  desert,  comes  home,  and 
finds  within  an  hour  or  two  the  old  life  of  comfort- 
less duties  suddenly  riveted  upon  him,  like  a  collar 
on  a  dog. 

The  customary  life — how  strange  it  was  that  this 
should  fulfil  its  little  order,  that  this  should  go  on 
quite  unchanged,  when  in  himself  so  much  was 
changed?  Here,  he  instinctively  felt,  lay  his  real 
battlefield.  He  must  explain  himself  to  his  wife. 
And  the  same  instinct  told  him  that  the  explana- 
tion could  not  be  delayed.   He  had  reason  to  fear 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  115 

its  eft'ect  on  her;  he  would  have  postponed  it  if  he 
could;  but  he  was  not  secretive  by  nature,  and  was 
conscious,  too,  that  each  instant  of  delay  must  mean 
some  evaporation  of  his  courage.  Already  that 
sense  of  the  habitual  closing  round  him  with  a  dull 
pressure  warned  him  that  his  only  hope  of  liberty 
lay  in  instant  action. 

Helen  met  him  at  the  dinner-table  with  her  usual 
smile  of  tired  vivacity.  During  the  course  of  the 
meal  she  entertained  him  with  her  pleasant  gossip. 
He  listened  indifferently,  until  at  last  she  remarked 
upon  his  inattention. 

"  You  seem  very  dull  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Has 
anything  happened  to  upset  you?" 

"  I've  seen  Mrs.  Lorimer,"  he  answered. 

"  About  the  business  of  the  Ladies'  Club,  I  sup- 
pose ? " 

"  Yes,  about  the  business  of  the  Club." 

The  meal  was  now  over,  and  the  happiest  hour  of 
the  day  had  come.  Coffee  was  usually  served  in 
the  library,  and  when  West  had  no  evening  en- 
gagement he  usually  spent  this  hour  in  conversation 
with  his  wife.  Each  had  learned  to  value  the  occa- 
sion, to  make  it  the  opportunity  of  a  gay  exchange 
of  thought  and  many  pleasant  confidences.  "  I  am 
only  really  married  for  an  hour  in  the  day,"  Helen 
was  accustomed  to  remark,  "  for  my  husband  be- 
longs to  every  one  but  me  through  all  the  other 


ii6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

hours."  West  had  often  wondered  how  much  of 
real  loneliness  lay  behind  the  irony  of  the  remark, 
and  even  on  his  busiest  days  he  usually  contrived 
to  keep  this  hour  for  Helen. 

"  And  now,"  said  Helen,  as  she  settled  herself 
into  her  rocking-chair,  "  tell  me  all  about  your  talk 
with  Mrs.  Lorimer.  I  suppose  you've  made  your 
peace  with  her;  though,  for  a  successful  diplomatist, 
I  must  admit  you  .lon't  look  very  happy." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I've  declared  war  upon  her," 
he  replied  gravely. 

"  You  don't  say?  "  she  replied,  with  a  gay  laugh. 
"Why,  how  surprised  she  must  have  been.  But 
of  course  that  is  only  a  figure  of  speech.  I  sup- 
pose what  you  really  did  was  to  remonstrate  with 
her  with  imperturbable  politeness,  and  that  she 
acknowledged  your  good  manners  by  suitable 
concessions." 

"  I  mean  exactly  what  I  say  Helen.  We  had  no 
vulgar  quarrel,  of  course;  but  we  disagreed  so  com- 
pletely that  she  now  regards  me  as  an  enemy." 

"  But,"  said  Helen,  "that's  serious.  Please  don't 
pique  my  curiosity  by  dark  sayings  and  enigmas. 
Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Thus  adjured,  West  plu.>-e(l  at  once  into  the 
heart  of  his  story.  He  described  the  bridge-party, 
his  refusal  of  the  money,  his  direct  repudiation  of 
the  methods  of  the  club,  his  declaration  of  the  true 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  117 

ideal  of  the  Church,  and  Mrs.  Lorimer's  surprise, 
indignation,  and  final  expressions  of  hostility. 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  said  Helen.  "Why 
did  you  do  this?  It's  not  at  all  like  you,  and  I'm 
sure  that  when  you  left  me  this  morning  you  didn't 
mean  to  do  it." 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  he  admitted. 

"  Then  what  has  happened,  for  it  is  clear  some- 
thing has  happened  ?   Why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

Could  he  tell  ber?  He  looked  wistfully  at  the 
fair  face  that  confronted  him,  and  remembered 
many  things  he  would  have  been  thankful  to  for- 
get. She  had  never  been  what  religious  critics 
would  call  a  spiritually-minded  woman,  but  when 
he  had  first  known  her  she  had  certainly  possessed 
some  spiritual  instincts  of  which  the  later  years 
afforded  little  trace.  She  was  loyal,  high-minded, 
thoughtful;  but  in  her,  as  in  him,  and  in  h\^e  part 
through  his  influence  upon  her,  the  critical  faculties 
had  been  developed  at  the  expense  of  the  emo- 
tional. And  then  there  was  that  disputatious  ele- 
ment in  her  blood,  that  inherited  faculty  of  analysis, 
which  so  often  in  the  children  of  New  England 
had  its  issue  in  a  hard  bloomless  lucidity  of  mind, 
in  a  life  that  is  destitute  of  perfume  and  gracious 
suavity.  How  would  she  take  liie  story  he  had 
to  tell  ?  How  could  it  be  supposed  that  such  a  story 
would  find  in  such  a  mind  a  sensitive  surface  for 


ii8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

its  just  interpretation?  He  looked  upon  her  with 
alarm,  for  the  first  time  perhaps  intensely  conscious 
of  the  records  written  on  that  face.  It  was  a  face 
clean  and  clear  as  a  face  upon  a  cameo;  the  grey 
eyes  had  much  penetration,  but  no  poetic  depth; 
the  mouth,  still  smiling  with  its  tired  vivacity,  was 
nevertheless  firm  and  almost  hard;  and  the  same 
pure  hardness  as  of  a  cameo  was  indicated  in  the 
high  but  somewhat  narrow  forehead  and  the  re- 
solved outlines  of  the  cheek  and  chin.  For  the  first 
time  it  struck  him  that  what  such  a  nature  needed 
for  its  equalising  complement  was  an  emotional 
religion,  that  what  the  face  needed  to  become  charm- 
ing was  the  touch  of  tenderness  produced  by  deep 
religious  feeling.  But  to  this  manifest  need  of  her 
nature  he  had  never  ministered.  He  had  ignored  it; 
he  had  even  suppressed  it.  And  now  in  the  crisis 
of  his  own  life  he  stood  before  her  for  judgment, 
and  he  foreknew  her  verdict. 

Yet  he  must  tell  her  the  whole  story.  That,  at 
least,  was  her  right.  If  she  replied,  as  Mrs.  Lori- 
mer  had  done,  that  the  story  was  unintelligible  to 
her  because  she  did  not  share  his  special  illumina- 
tion, she  would  still  be  within  her  rights,  and  he 
must  bear  her  repudiation  as  part  of  that  punish- 
ment which  he  had  brought  upon  himself  by  his 
past  relations  with  her.  "  Then  shall  they  deliver 
up  one  another,  and  shall  hate  one  another;"  was 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  119 

he  indeed  about  to  learn  what  these  words  meant? 
He  shuddered  at  the  thought;  it  came  to  him  with 
a  throb  of  pain  that  was  almost  physical;  but  it 
had  no  effect  on  his  resolve.  She  must  know  all; 
that  was  her  right,  and  from  that  conclusion  no  es- 
.cape  was  possible. 

"  Helen,"  he  began.  "  Do  you  believe  in  the 
supernatural  ? " 

"  Why,  what  a  strange  question,"  she  replied. 
"  Tell  me  what  you  mean  by  it,  and  I  will  try  to 
answer  it,  though  what  it  has  to  do  with  Mrs.  Lori- 
mer  I  can't  tell." 

**  It  is  not  of  Mrs.  Lorimer  I  am  going  to  speak 
now,  except  incidentally;  it  is  of  myself.  What  I 
mean  by  the  question  is  something  like  this :  do  you 
believe  that  there  are  realms  in  which  reason  can- 
not guide  us,  that  there  are  influences  that  intrude 
upon  our  lives  which  the  mere  reason  cannot  com- 
prehend, that,  in  fact,  it  is  still  possible  for  men 
and  women  to  have  communion  with  unseen  pres- 
ences, hidden  worlds — to  hear  their  voices,  even 
to  have  visions  of  them  in  certain  rare  states  of  feel- 
ing ?  Search  your  mind,  and  tell  me  honestly,  if  you 
believe  this? " 

"  That's  a  very  strange  question,"  she  replied. 
"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  it.  You  see  I  am 
a  very  practical  person,  and  life  appears  to  me  a 
very  plain  business.   I  remember  that  when  I  was 


120     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


a  oirl  T  did  believe  in  ghosts,  and  I  once  wasted  a 
dollar  on  crystal-gazing.  I  very  soon  saw  the  non- 
sense of  it,  however.  As  for  the  supernatural  in 
the  wide  sense,  well,  there  may  be  such  a  thing, 
but  I  know  nothing  about  it.'" 

"  Yet  you  are  a  Christian,"  he  interjected. 
"  And  pray  what  has  tliat  to  do  with  it  ?  " 
"  Simply  that  you  derive  your  religion  from  rec- 
ords that  are  satiirated  with  the  supernatural.  There 
is  not  a  page  of  the  Gospels  in  which  you  are  not 
confronted  by  it." 

"  O,  but  that  has  been  explained  away  long  ago, 
hasn't  it  ?  No  one  imagines  that  sort  of  thing  real. 
It  will  be  news  to  me  if  you  do." 

West  groaned  in  spirit.  How  was  he  to  explain 
to  this  clear  but  narrow  intellect  the  new  beliefs  that 
had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  his  own  heart?  Were 
not  the  very  words  he  used  symbols  of  one  kind 
of  thought  to  him,  symbols  of  a  totally  different 
kind  to  her?  Men  of  great  sincerity  of  feeling, 
who  experience  startling  changes  in  themselves, 
naturally  suppose  that  otliers  are  equally  suscepti- 
ble of  change;  it  is  one  of  the  most  painful  dis- 
coveries of  life  to  find  that  this  is  an  illusion.  Paul's 
companions  on  the  road  to  Damascus  did  not  see  the 
vision  he  saw;  how  was  it  possible,  then,  that  they 
should  feel  about  it  as  he  felt?  He  had  seen  Jesus 
in  the  heavens;  they  saw  nothing  more  than  a 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  lai 

man  suddenly  ovenhrown  in  the  hour  of  his  pride 

by  the  violence  of  some  mysterious  disease,  and 
they  heard  nothing  more  than  the  babblings  of  a 
madman.  Yet  he  declared  his  vision,  and  West  felt 
that  same  compulsion  of  confession  as  strongly  as 
Paul.  And  he  realised  also  that  it  was  useless  to 
try  to  make  it  credible  by  any  weak  attempts  to  con- 
ciliate the  intellect.  His  business  was  simply  to 
affirm  it  in  all  its  stark  impossibility;  its  effect  on 
other  minds  could  not  be  predicated;  but  since  he 
could  not  calculate  these  effects  it  was  clearly  no 
concern  of  his  to  think  twice  about  them.  His  mind 
was  made  up;  he  must  confess  the  truth  as  he 
saw  it. 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
Helen's  shoulder  with  a  touch  so  gentle  that  it 
was  a  caress.  His  face  was  pale,  his  eyes  gleamed. 

"  Helen,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing that  will  shock  you,  perhaps.  Be  patient  with 
me,  dear.   At  all  events  believe  me  honest," 

She  raised  to  him  startled  eyes,  and  a  face  as 
pale  as  his.  But,  although  for  an  instant  a  great 
dread  had  fallen  on  her,  a  dread  of  she  knew  not 
what,  her  manner  did  not  lose  its  elaborate  com- 
posure. "Go  on,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  am  lis- 
tening." 

Once  more  he  went  over  all  the  details  of  those 
occurrences  which  had  meant  so  much  to  him.  He 


133     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

told  the  story  quite  baldly,  but  each  plain  phrase  was 
weighted  with  conviction.  The  awfulness  of  th'; 
story  grew  upon  him  as  he  told  it ;  his  voice  sank  at 
times  into  a  reverential  whisper.  He  almost  forgot 
the  presence  of  Helen  as  he  spwDke;  the  things  of 
which  he  spoke  wer».  so  real  to  him  that  they  ab- 
sorbed his  vision,  and  detached  him  from  his  im- 
mediate environment.  Had  his  eye  retained  its 
more  human  vigilance,  he  might  have  found  cause 
for  alarm  in  the  face  of  Helen.  At  first  that  face 
expressed  simple  wonder;  but  he  had  not  spoken 
long  before  her  eyes  were  averted,  her  lips  ex- 
changed their  vivacious  curve  for  a  hard,  obstinate 
line,  her  expression  was  cold  and  scornful.  At 
length  he  ceased.  His  hand  was  still  on  Helen's 
shoulder;  his  first  sensation,  as  he  again  became 
conscious  of  human  things,  was  that  Helen  had  with- 
drawn herself  from  his  caress.  She  rose  to  her 
feet,  pale,  cold,  silent — a  woman  of  ice.  And  there 
was  ice  in  her  voice  as  she  said  quietly,  "  Well, 
have  you  done?  " 

"Yes,"  said  West,  "that  is  all." 

"  It  is  enough,"  she  said,  "  more  than  enough, 
i  think." 

"  Don't  you  believe  me? " 

"O,  I  believe  you,"  she  replied,  in  a  dreary 
voice.  "  That  is  to  say,  I  believe  that  you  believe 
the  strange  things  you  tell  me  are  true.   But  that 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  laj 

is  not  at  all  the  kind  of  thing  that  weighs  with 
me. 

"  Helen,  dear  wife,  what  is  it  you  mean?  " 

He  again  placed  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  but 
she  shrank  from  him.  He  noticed  the  action  with 
dismay. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say,"  she  replied.  A  brief 
emotion  of  pity  shook  her  heart  as  she  looked  upon 
his  wo     tired  face. 

"  Si  n,"  she  said.  "  You  arc  tired.  And 
what  I  have  to  say  will  take  time." 

The  emotion  of  pity  was  very  brief;  it  passed 
and  left  her  colder  than  ever. 

"  Francis,  have  I  ever  been  disloyal  to  you  in 
word  or  act?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  you  have  always  been  loyal,  dear." 

"Believe  me  loyal  still,  then.  There  are  some 
confessions  which  a  husband  may  make  to  a  wife 
which  I  think  I  could  bear  as  well  as  most  women. 
They  might  be  shameful,  confessions  of  weakness 
and  temptation — ^yet  if  you  had  put  your  head  upon 
my  lap  and  told  me  these  things,  I  think  I  could 
have  borne  them.  You  would  still  have  been  the 
man  I  knew,  the  man  I  loved,  and  I  could  have  made 
allowance  for  a  fault.  But  this  that  you  have  told 
me — it  is  a  different  thing.  You  are  no  longer 
the  man  I  knew  and  loved.  The  man  I  loved  was 


124     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

rational,  clear-sighted,  wise,  a  man  to  be  trusted. 
The  man  you  now  confront  me  with  is  irrational 
and  crazed.  He  is  a  strange  man,  a  man  I  never 
knew.  And  to  him  I  have  but  one  thing  to  say: 
I  could  bear  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  who  was  be- 
trayed by  temptation  or  even  fell  into  dishonour; 
I  cannot  bear  to  be  the  wife  of  a  fool." 

"  Helen!  "  he  cried.    "  Stoj)  " 

No,  I  will  not  stop,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  You 
have  had  your  say;  it  is  now  my  turn.  But  if  you 
have  still  enough  reason  left  to  answer  me  a  plain 
question,  tell  me  this:  do  you  know  what  sort  of 
career  lies  before  you?" 

"  I  know  that  I  must  suffer.  But  what  does  that 
matter?  Many  others,  far  worthier  than  I,  have 
suffered  for  the  truth." 

"  For  the  truth,  yes;  I  would  not  refuse  to  share 
any  suffering  you  might  endure  for  truth.  But 
this — this  tissue  of  delusion.  I  am  not  prepared 
to  suffer  for  this.  And  it  is  delusion,  the  wildest 
delusion." 

"  To  me  it  is  truth." 
<  "  To  you,  but  not  to  me — ^that  is  where  we  differ. 
And  it  is  a  difference  that  goes  down  to  the  very 
roots  of  life.  Sins  and  faults  may  divide  human 
creatures,  but  these  you  can  bridge  by  many  means. 
This  is  something  that  can't  be  bridged.  I  also  have 
a  reverence  for  truth;  it  is  the  last  reverence  left 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  ia$ 

to  me,  and  for  that  reason  I  cling  to  it  with  the 
greater  passion.  And  I  should  feel  myself  eternally 
dishonoured  if  I  let  that  reverence  go;  if  just  he- 
cause  I  loved  you,  I  let  you  impose  your  wild  irra- 
tionalities on  me,  and  make  me  the  accomplice  of 
your  folly." 

"  But  I  don't  ask  that,  Helen.  Keep  your  be- 
liefs, but  let  me  keep  mine — that  is  all  I  ask." 

"No,  it  is  not  all  you  ask,  and  you  know  it. 
What  you  really  ask  of  me  is  to  follow  you  meekly, 
or  at  least  silently,  while  you  plunge  headlong  into 
a  vortex  of  deserved  disaster.  You  may  not  yet 
be  able  to  measure  that  disaster,  or  even  to  rec(^- 
nise  it;  but  I  can  do  both.  You  will  lose  your 
church,  of  course;  thai  goes  without  saying.  You 
will  be  covered  with  derision.  You  will  find  your 
ultimate  companions  among  a  few  half-crazed  fa- 
natics— a  very  few,  for  fortunately  for  the  world 
even  these  are  rare.  O,  I  could  follow  you  even 
there,  if  I  were  as  mad  as  you.  But  I  am  not  mad. 
I  have  been  bred  in  a  love  of  reason,  and  wilful 
irrationality  is  a  thing  impossible  to  me.  Francis 
West,  I  will  not  be  the  wife  of  a  fool.  I  will  not 
so  shame  my  ancestry." 

He  did  not  reply,  and  she  took  his  silence  as  a 
sign  of  yielding  to  her  argtunents. 

"O,  Francis,"  she  cried,  with  genuine  passion, 
for  tortured  love  at  last  spoke  in  her,  "  tell  me,  O, 


ia6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


tell  me  that  all  these  things  you  have  said  to  nic 
are  a  mere  dream!  It  is  impossible  that  you  should 
have  changed  so  utterly  in  three  brief  days.  Such 
things  don't  happen,  they  can't  happen.  It  is  some 
fearful  obsession  of  the  mind  that  has  overtaken 
you.  Cast  o'lt  the  perilous  stufT.  Re  yourself  again 
— the  man  I  have  known  and  trusted  all  these  years, 
the  man  I  love." 

"  I  cannot  change  at  will,  Helen,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  broken  voice.  "  I  know  these  things 
are  true — I  have  had  my  vision — I  dare  not  dis- 
obey it." 

"Then  we  come  to  tne  parting  of  the  ways," 
she  replied,  with  a  sob.  It  was  a  dry,  tearless  sob — 
it  touched  West  in  the  utmost  fibre  of  his  tender- 
ness. For  one  vivid  moment  he  saw  all  thnt  'I's 
love  had  been  to  him,  all  that  its  loss  would  mean; 
and  he  was  tempted  to  c  /,  "  Let  everything  go,  if 
only  love  remains."  But  he  knew  he  could  not  say 
it.  His  tortured  lips  sought  to  frame  the  words  in 
vain.  He  saw  his  house  made  desolate;  he  could 
avert  that  desolation  by  a  word;  yet  he  could  not 
•utter  it.  From  some  unsuspected  source  within  him- 
self a  spirit  of  fortitude  emerged;  each  inarticulate 
atom  of  his  being  ran  together  in  a  unity  of  pro- 
test; and  it  seemed  some  other  Power,  not  within 
himself,  supported  him  in  that  hour,  and  gave 
him  utterance. 


THEY  OF  ONE'S  OWN  HOUSEHOLD  la/ 

"  I  can't  turn  back,  dear,  even  to  keep  your  love. 
I  cannot— I  will  not." 

"  Then  you  know  the  penalty."  The  hardneu 
had  come  back  into  her  voice.  "  I  cannot  bear  to 
remain  here  to  watch  your  downfall.  I  shall  go 
home  to-morrow  to  my  mother.  I  will  frame  the 
best  excuse  I  can  to  cover  my  disgrace;  but  the  dis- 
grace of  having  left  you  will  be  easier  to  bear 
than  the  shame  I  should  endure  if  I  remained  with 
you." 

She  stood  very  erect  as  she  spoke  those  final 
words,  a  slight,  tense  figure,  all  ice  and  steel,  of  an 
infinite  chill  composure,  of  an  indomitable  will,  a 
creature  capable  of  cruelty  perhaps,  but  never  of 

frailty. 

She  allowed  him  no  reply.  For  one  moment  she 
paused  on  the  threshold  ot  the  room,  as  if  in  mute 
farewell,  and  glanced  at  her  husband  as  he  sat 
with  head  bowed  in  his  hands  beside  the  table.  But 
she  did  not  come  to  him.  Between  him  and  her 
there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  The  door  closed,  and 
she  was  gone. 

"  Then  shall  they  deliver  up  one  another,  and 
shall  hate  one  another." 

Already  the  words  were  fulfilled. 


VII 


IVAN  LEVIN 


N  the  meanwhile,  while  West  fought  out  his 
solitary  battle,  strange  things  had  been  hap- 
pening in  the  life  of  Stockmar. 


As  Stockmar  sat  on  that  memorable  Saturday 
night  poring  over  his  Bible,  he  recollected  the  para- 
graph about  the  Doukhobors  which  Field  had  read 
from  the  evening  paper.   Who  were  these  strange 
people?    Were  they  merely  wandering  enthusi- 
asts? Stockmar  had  spent  some  months  at  a  Rus- 
sian University  in  his  youth,  and  was  tolerably 
familiar  with  some  of  the  aspects  of  Russian  life 
and  character.   He  did  not  remember  that  in  those 
days  he  had  heard  a  single  word  about  the  Douk- 
hobors; but  he  had  been  acute  enough  to  perceive 
that  Russian  character  was  not  to  be  measured  by 
*  what  was  to  be  seen  of  it  in  cities.  Russia,  among 
all  modem  nations,  and  almost  alone  among  them, 
retained  the  qualities  of  primitive  and  pastoral  life. 
In  the  great  majority  of  her  people  character  had 
a  certain  broad  simplicity;  the  average  Russian  was 
the  last  person  to  be  accused  of  levity  of  tempera- 

138 


IVAN  LEVIN  129 

meiit,  especially  in  relation  to  religious  ideas.  Med- 
itating on  thi?  tact,  the  thought  suddenly  struck 
Stockmar  that  if  a  Christ  redly  became  once  more 

manifest  to  mm,  it  was  pr  )bable  enough  that  that 
manifestation  would  be  nude  first  of  all  to  Russian 
peasants,  who  in  their  great  simplicity  of  mind  so 
much  resembled  the  Galilean  peasants  to  whom  that 
manifestation  was  first  made.  It  was  a  new  idea, 
and  in  its  light,  Stockmar  no  longer  saw  the  Douk- 
hobors  as  a  group  of  grotesque  and  insane  fanatics. 

Might  they  not  be  worth  serious  attention?  Might 
they  not  be  capable  of  imparting  some  instruction 
that  was  worth  having?  Such  an  interrogation, 
arising  in  such  a  mind  as  Stockmar's,  was  a  curious 
phenomenon;  but  then  his  whole  mind  had  suffered 
an  enormous  change,  and  he  had  passed  at  one  step 
from  complete  agnosticism  to  the  most  primitive 
form  of  religious  faith.  He  was  now  as  a  little 
child,  newly  introduced  into  a  strange  world,  whose 
values  were  not  yet  apprehended  or  defined.  And 
he  had  no  one  to  guide  him.  The  scales  had  fallen 
from  his  eyes,  and  he  saw  men  as  trees  walking,  but 
there  was  no  Ananias  to  direct  his  uncertain  steps. 

Stockmar  had  always  been  a  man  of  quick  re- 
solves. His  was  a  nature  that  when  it  moved, 
moved  altogether,  for  the  basis  of  his  character  was 
that  same  broad  simplicity  so  noticeable  in  the  Rus- 
sian peasant.    He  had  lived  in  an  artificial  world, 


I30     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


but  he  was  not  an  artificial  man.  The  artificialities 
with  which  he  had  involved  his  life  had  now  van- 
ished; the  strong  primal  characteristics  had  emerged. 

The  blood  of  generations  of  peasants  ran  m  his 
veins  also,  and  that  blood  now  asserted  its  indis- 
putable claim. 

The  early  hours  of  the  day  following  that  day 
on  which  he  had  had  his  vision  found  him  travel- 
ling northward  in  search  of  the  Doukhobors.  Day 
and  night  for  many  weary  hours  the  world  ran  past 
him  like  a  long  ribbon  of  green  and  blue,  with 
transient  flashes  of  scarlet  where  the  maples  lit 
the  woods,  and  threads  of  tangled  silver  where 
quiet  waters  gave  back  the  light  of  countless  stars. 
At  last  he  reached  b's  bourne.  His  feet  trod  for 
the  first  time  the  illimitable  prairie. 

The  place  to  which  he  had  come  was  called 
Canora.  His  first  impression  was  one  of  tranquil 
prosperity,  of  a  kind  of  life  that  at  all  events  knew 
the  virtues  of  order  and  method. 

Upon  the  slopes  of  a  little  glen  the  buildings  of 
the  village  clustered  amid  green  trees  and  under- 
growth. They  were  long  and  low,  built  of  logs; 
the  roofs,  plastered  with  clay,  were  overgrown  with 
wild  flowers;  doors  and  shutters  were  painted  in 
crude  but  pleasing  forms  of  art;  bright-coloured 
curtains  hung  at  the  windows,  and  each  cottage 
had  its  garden.    In  and  out  of  the  open  doors 


IVAN  LEVIN 


131 


children  ran,  each  rosy  with  the  tonic  of  the  prairie 
wind.  The  w^men  were  strongly  built,  deep- 
bosomed,  plain  ojl'  feature:  all  that  they  wore  was 

immaculately  clean,  and  their  aspect  was  wholesome 
and  good.   The  men  were  at  this  hour  in  the  fields. 

Stockmar,  entering  the  village,  at  once  found  a 
welcome.  He  discovered  on  enquiry  that  it  was 
part  of  tlie  religion  of  this  simple  people  to  show 
hospitality  to  all  strangers  without  distinction,  and 
to  refuse  all  compensation. 

An  old  man  guided  him  to  the  house  in  which 
he  was  to  lodge.  He  was  met  at  the  door  by  a 
huge  fellow  with  ruddy  cheeks,  blue  eyes,  and  flaxen 
hair,  who  had  been  hastily  summoned  from  the 
fields.  The  man  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it  in  token 
of  welcori3.  The  room  into  which  he  was  shown 
was  rough,  but  spotlessly  clean,  and  the  home-spun 
linen  had  the  fragrance  of  lavender.  A  hearty 
and  plentiful  meal  was  hastfly  prepared  for  him. 
During  this  repast  he  learned  from  his  host  some 
particulars  of  the  people  he  had  come  so  far  to 
see. 

It  seemed  that  the  settlement  consisted  of  forty 
farms,  which  were  worked  in  common  by  the  whole 
community.  An  immense  barn  in  the  centre  of  the 
village  was  the  commercial  nucleus  of  this  com- 
mon life.  There  was  a  headman  in  the  village  to 
whom  all  earnings  were  handed  over  for  invest- 


132     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


tnent,  and  applied  for  the  common  goo  i  The 
entire  colony  was  vegetarian.  There  was  no  smok- 
ing or  drinking,  and  crime  was  unknown.  The 
principles  on  which  this  little  commonwealth  res*  d 
were  all  derived  from  the  plain  teachings  of  Jesus 
Christ.  No  oath  was  permitted;  the  yea  was  yea, 
and  the  nay,  nay.  Appeals  to  civil  law  were  for- 
bidden. Disputes,  if  they  arose,  were  settled  quietly 
by  appeals  to  Scripture.  A  spirit  of  tranquillity 
and  cheerfulness  was  apparent  everywhere.  The 
people  sang  hymns  at  their  work,  the  children  sang 
at  their  play,  There  was  an  eminent  gentleness 
about  this  strange  people.  Despised  in  their  own 
count  y,  persecuted  and  cast  out,  these  peasants 
had  brought  with  them  no  bitter  feelings  toward 
any  one.  They  had  left  behind  them  that  spirit 
of  avarice  and  selfish  individualism  which  makes 
life  base  in  all  older  countries.  Alone  among  all  the 
peoples  of  the  earth,  so  it  seemed  to  Stockmar,  this 
handful  of  fugitives,  fleeing  from  oppression,  had 
built  up  the  only  community  visible  to  men  which 
might  be  truly  called  Christian,  which  gave  an  ex- 
ample of  that  social  happiness  and  contentment 
which  Jesus  sought  to  communicate  to  mankind. 

How  had  all  this  been  accomplished? 

The  answer  was  quite  clear.  To  these  men  and 
women  Jesus  was  a  reality.  And  that  He  would 
come  again  was  the  mainspring  of  all  their  beliefs. 


IVAN  LEVIN  133 

This  belief  had  begotten  in  them  not  slavish  fear, 
but  a  rapturous  desire  for  His  approval,  and  hence 
their  entire  life  was  arranged  ijx  accordance  with 
those  plain  precepts  which  He  had  made  binding  on 

His  followers. 

The  hours  passed;  he  was  still  talking  with  his 
host,  indescribably  fascinated  by  the  pictures  he 
drew  of  this  new  world  and  life.  The  man  was 
so  unaffectedly  happy  and  at  peace,  the  life  he  de- 
scribed was  so  full  of  gentleness  and  sweetness, 
that  Stockmar  could  onl}'  think  with  wonder  and 
pity  of  that  far-off  world  of  New  York,  with  its 
monotonous  and  empty  passions,  its  violence,  cru- 
elty, and  t^reed,  its  insane  frivolities,  its  vulgar  ex- 
travagances, its  vain  paraded  wisdom  which  was 
but  ignorance  and  folly.  And  again  and  again, 
when  Stockmar  asked  the  reason  for  some  feature 
of  this  life  which  would  have  provoked  ridicule 
in  the  clubrooms  of  New  York,  he  received  the 
simple  answer: 

"  We  do  this  because  Jesus  told  us  to! " 

"  And  you  believe  that  Jesus  will  come  again  ?  " 
said  Stockmar. 

"  We  are  sure  of  it,"  the  man  replied. 

"  But  do  you  expect  it,  I  mean.  Do  you,  for 
instance,  think  that  He  might  come  to-night?" 

"Why  not?"  said  the  man.  "You  know  His 
words,  sir :  '  Be  ye  also  ready,  for  in  such  an  hour 


134     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

as  ye  think  not,  the  Son  of  Man  cometh.'  To 
some  of  us  He  has  already  come.  To  the  others 
He  will  come  soon." 

"Have  you  seen  Him?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  yet.  But  as  I  said,  there  are  some 
of  us  who  have.  Ivan  Levin  saw  Him  not  long 
ago:  it  was  but  last  week.  And  so  we  think  the 
time  is  near  for  His  appearing.  Yet  a  few  more 
days  and  nights  shall  pass,  and  all  shall  see  Him, 
and  they  also  who  pierced  Him." 

There  was  a  vibration  of  intense  emotion  in  the 
man's  voice  as  he  said  these  words.  His  plain  face 
was  transformed,  his  keen  blue  eyes  were  soft  and 
wistful. 

"  We  are  as  those  who  wait  for  the  morning," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  How  long,  O  Lord,  how 
long?" 

"  I  also  believe,  brother,"  said  Stockmar.  "  Yet 
let  me  ask  one  question,  what  about  these  people 
who  go  out  to  search  for  Christ — ^who  do  things 
that  seem  foolish?" 

"  They  are  mistaken,  sir.  They  forget  that  He 
said  many  would  cry  '  Lo,  Christ  is  here,  or  Lo,  He 
is  there;  go  ye  not  out  after  them.'  I  went  with 
them  once,  but  I  found  Him  not.  Now  I  have 
a  better  thought.  Must  we  not  wait  His  time,  and 
seek  to  be  ready  when  that  time  comes?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  assuredly  the  better  thought.  But 


IVAN  LEVIN 


135 


what  about  the  man  you  spoke  of — Ivan  Levin — 
you  say  he  saw  Him?" 

"  I  will  take  you  to  Ivan  Levin  when  the  night 
falls ;  he  „  ill  tell  you.  He  is  an  old  man,  who  does 
not  work  now.  He  spends  his  days  in  prayer;  but 
at  night  he  comes  among  us,  and  goes  from  house 
to  house,  saying,  '  Children,  be  patient.  I  have 
heard  His  footstep.  The  time  is  at  hand.'  Yes, 
you  must  see  Ivan  Levin.  I  am  but  a  plain  man, 
but  to  him  God  has  given  vision,  and  we  try  to  see 
with  his  eyes." 

"  Is  it  a  promise,  brother  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  promise,  brother.  At  nightfall  I  will 
take  you  to  Ivan  Levin." 

He  took  Stockmar's  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  Peace 
be  with  you,  brother,"  he  said;  and  left  the  room. 

Stockmar  passed  the  day  in  great  solitude,  and 
with  a  sense  of  peace  that  was  entirely  new  to  him. 
That  peace  was  in  part  the  natural  gift  of  the 
scenes  in  which  he  found  himself;  but  it  was  in 
larger  part  the  result  of  elements  within  himself. 
For  the  first  time  that  he  could  recollect  since  child- 
hood the  critical  faculties  of  his  intellect  were  in 
abeyance.  Those  faculties  had  for  many  years  been 
the  chief  sources  of  his  pleasure — when  they  were 
not  the  instruments  of  his  torture.  Often  they 
were  the  latter.  They  had  harassed  him  with  in- 
finite interrogations,  quickened  his  whole  mind  into 


136     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

feverish  restlessness,  and  made  him  sceptical  of 
everything.  Perhaps  there  is  no  worse  folly,  and 
none  of  which  the  penalty  is  so  certain,  than  this 
over-stimulation  of  the  critical  faculty  in  men  of 
fine  minds.  The  penalty  usually  comes  in  sterilised 
emotion,  and  final  cynicism  in  opinion.  Nothing 
satisfies,  because  every  satisfaction  seems  incom- 
plete. The  common  life  of  men  is  misunderstood 
because  it  is  not  shared,  and  soon  appears  intolera- 
ble. Much  that  is  really  sweet  and  good  is  neg- 
lected because  it  does  not  satisfy  a  taste  that  has 
become  morbidly  fastidious,  and  thus  in  the  end 
life  itself  appears  sterile  and  barren,  and  all  the 
beliefs  which  animate  and  comfort  ordinary  men,  a 
grotesque  insult  to  the  superior  intelligence.  Stock- 
mar  had  not  escaped  these  penalties;  he  had  long 
viewed  life  in  a  spirit  of  disdain,  and  had  felt  him- 
self an  alien  among  men. 

But  now  his  nature  was  miraculously  sweetened 
and  softened.  There  had  come  back  to  him  the 
long-lost  faculty  of  wonder,  that  power  of  spiritual 
astonishment  which  is  the  gift  of  the  child  and  the 
poet.  He  dwelt  in  a  transfigured  world,  where  every 
common  bush  was  touched  with  a  divine  fire.  Who 
should  say  that  this  or  that  thing  was  incredible? 
Where  all  appeared  the  work  of  miracle,  miracle 
became  the  normal  condition  of  existence.  In  that 
moment  Stockmar  found  the  truth  of  that  amazing 


IVAN  LEVIN 


137 


word  of  Christ's,  "  All  things  are  possible  to  him 
that  believeth." 

He  gazed  upon  the  little  wooded  glen,  and  be- 
yond it  into  the  vast  spaces  of  the  prairie  over  which 
the  sun  was  now  linking.  The  whole  scene  seemed 
insubstantial,  something  that  might  dissolve  at 
any  moment.  He  could  almost  fancy  that  strange 
murmurs  ran  along  the  earth,  perhaps  the  first  sounds 
of  this  dissolution,  perhaps  the  movement  of  some 
vast  machinery,  raising  the  curtain  of  the  heavens 
on  soundless  pulleys.  Certainly  behind  that  cur- 
tain some  presences  dwelt;  as  certainly  they  might 
emerge.  The  hush  of  approaching  night  had  an  ele- 
ment of  waiting  in  it.  It  was  as  if  the  world  stood 
on  tiptoe,  listening  for  a  footstep.  And  these  men 
and  women,  whose  evening  hymns,  sung  as  they 
came  home  from  work,  thrilled  upon  the  stillness, 
knew  whose  footstep  it  was  for  which  the  world 
waited.  He  would  come — that  was  their  religion, 
that  was  the  impulse  of  their  life;  and,  seeing  how 
pure  and  sweet  that  life  was,  who  would  not  wish 
to  share  their  hope? 

He  rose  at  last  from  the  green  bank  where  he 
had  spent  the  afternoon  in  meditation.  At  the  cot- 
tage door  stood  his  host,  waiting  to  conduct  him 
to  the  presence  of  Ivan  Levin. 

A  few  steps  took  him  to  Levin's  door.  The  door 
opened,  and  he  saw  before  him  an  old  man,  erect. 


138     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

strongly  built,  wliite-beardetl,  his  brow  and  cheeks 
much  lined,  his  eyes  searching  and  visionary. 

"  Peace  be  unto  you,  brother,"  said  Levin.  "  I 
know  your  errand.  Come  in." 

The  room  was  very  plain.  Upon  the  table  was 
spread  a  frugal  meal  of  herbs  and  bread.  A  lamp 
hung  from  one  of  the  ceiling  beams.  Its  light  fell 
strongly  on  the  old  man's  face,  giving  it  a  Rem- 
brandt effect  of  homely  majesty. 

He  did  not  wait  for  Stockmar's  question;  he  at 
once  began  his  story.  Yes,  it  was  a  week  ago: 
the  moon  was  full,  and  he  was  alone  in  his  cot- 
tage, 'sing  the  night  in  prayer.  The  dawn  was 
near:  and  then! — He  put  out  the  lamp,  and  stood 
at  the  window,  gazing  out  upon  the  long  village 
road.  Along  the  road  he  saw  One  coming  very 
quietly,  as  though  He  trod  on  wool.  He  went  from 
door  to  door,  standing  before  each  a  moment.  Every 
house  was  silent;  all  the  people  were  asleep.  He 
seemed  to  be  looking  for  some  one  who  did  not 
sleep.  As  He  came  down  the  street  toward  Levin's 
house,  at  last  His  face  was  visible.  It  was  pale 
"«nd  calm  and  sweet,  but  very  awful.  It  shone  like 
silver  in  the  moonlight.  Levin  flung  wide  his  door, 
and  stood  in  it  with  bowed  head  and  hands  out- 
stretched. "  Lord,  Lord,"  he  murmured,  "  is  it 
Thou?"  "  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid,"  replied  a  voice 
that  thrilled  hini.   The  figure  stood  for  a  moment 


IVAN  LEVIN  139 

opposite  Levin's  door.  Levin  dared  not  look  up, 
but  he  felt  that  the  eyes  of  the  stranger  rested  upon 
him,  and  his  heart  burned  within  him.  "  Blessed 
are  they  who  are  found  watching  when  their  Lord 

Cometh,"  said  the  voice.  Levin  felt  as  it  were  a 
soft  touch  upon  his  bowed  head,  a  faint  breath,  like 
the  stirring  of  the  wind.  When  he  looked  up  the 
vision  was  gone. 

"  It  is  so  Ke  comes,"  concluded  the  old  man,  in 
a  trembling  voice;  "first  to  one,  then  to  another, 
that  He  may  find  who  waits  for  Him;  and  then 
when  He  has  numbered  His  elect,  He  will  come  in 
such  a  way  that  all  will  see  Him." 

Sincerity,  simplicity,  a  strong  manliness  of  na- 
ture breathed  in  every  word  of  the  old  man.  Stock- 
mar  longed  to  tell  him  that  he  also  had  had  his 
vision,  but  humility  kept  him  silent.  For  he  knew 
that,  though  he  had  had  his  vision,  he  had  not 
waited  for  it,  as  this  old  man  had,  and  therefore  he 
was  doubly  unworthy  to  behold  it. 

Levin  lifted  his  right  hand  in  blessing,  "  God  be 
with  you,  brother.   The  time  is  short." 

The  interview  was  over.  Stockmar  walked  back 
in  silence  to  the  house  of  his  host. 

He  found  the  lamps  lit,  the  supper  on  the  table, 
the  family  waiting  for  him.  There  were  beside  his 
host  and  his  wife  four  children,  ruddy-cheeked  and 
sturdy,  and  an  old  man  and  woman.  When  the  meal 


140     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

was  finished  the  Bible  was  produced,  and  one  of  the 
children  read  from  it  some  passages  in  English. 
This  was  followed  by  a  Russian  hymn,  very  sweet 
and  piercing.  After  the  first  verse  Stockmar  was 
able  to  recognise  its  meaning,  and  to  translate  it 
roughly.  As  near  as  he  could  gather,  the  words  ran : 

When  the  gloom  is  on  the  pasture. 

And  the  children  have  cnme  home, 
He  will  come,  He  will  come. 

When  the  evening  star  is  lighted 
In  the  midnight's  temple  dome, 
He  will  come,  He  will  come. 

When  you  hear  the  wind  at  midnight. 
When  at  dawn  the  cock  crows  clear. 

He  is  near.  He  is  near. 

With  the  hands  that  once  so  suffered 
He  will  knock  upon  the  door, 
Gently  knock,  and  nothing  more. 

Say  not  that  thou  hast  not  heard  Hini 
Gentle  though  the  knocking  be. 
It  is  He,  it  is  He! 

Though  some  may  disregard  Him, 
Slothful  some  and  scornful  some. 
He  will  come,  He  will  come. 

With  the  last  line  of  each  verse  the  simple  melody 
rose  into  'find  of  ecstatic  cry.  When  the  hymn 
ceased  the  little  group  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, with  bowed  heads.   Then  they  rose  one  by 


IVAN  LEVIN  141 

one  and  went  to  bed.  In  another  hour  complete 
silence  had  settled  down  upon  the  house. 

"  ill  midnight  a  great  cry  was  heard.  Be- 
hold, the  Bridegroom  cometh:  go  ye  out  to  meet 

Him!" 

Stockmar  awoke  siuldciily  from  sleep,  and  sat  up 
in  bed,  gazing  witii  startled  eyes  into  the  semi- 
darkness  of  the  room.  The  late  and  waning  moon 
had  now  risen,  and  one  slender  ray  of  silver  lay 
across  the  floor. 
"  Behold,  He  cometh:  go  ye  out  to  m  -  t  Him  I" 
The  words  were  this  time  distinctly  audible;  they 
were  not  the  language  of  a  dream.  It  was  a  clear, 
ringing  voice  that  spoke,  evidently  in  the  village 
street. 

Stockmar  went  to  the  window,  opened  it  softly, 
and  gazed  out.  All  was  very  silent;  the  dark  fir 
trees  stood  motionless,  the  plain  houses  were  washed 
with  faint  moonshine,  the  grass  glittered  with  the 
dew.  At  first  he  saw  nothing  more;  then  he  became 
aware  that  other  windows  had  been  softly  opened, 
and  then  doors,  and  that  the  whole  village  was 
awake.  Ten  minutes  passed;  no  sound  was  audible 
but  the  tinkle  of  the  little  brook  flowing  down  the 
glen.  But  the  silence  was  eager;  it  was  laden  with 
significance;  it  was  pregnant  with  the  throb  of  many 
beating  hearts. 


142     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

And  then  it  seemed  as  though  the  breath  sud- 
denly left  him,  his  whole  being  hung  suspended,  and 
a  sense  of  awe,  at  once  profound  and  exquisite,  pos- 
sessed him.  For  down  the  long  village  street  moved 
such  a  Figure  as  Levin  had  described,  walking  softly 
as  on  wool.   He  went  from  door  to  door,  standing 
before  each  an  instant,  as  if  in  mute  enquiry  and 
conjecture.    And  from  these  doors,  as  he  passed, 
men  and  women  came  out  silently,  their  faces  show- 
ing pale  and  tense  in  the  thin  moonshine.  Yet  there 
was  no  fear  in  those  faces;  only  joy  unspeakable, 
and  a  sort  of  measureless  content.  He  moved  slowly 
down  the  village  street,  they  following,  and,  as  He 
drew  nearer,  Stockmar  saw  His  face.   It  was  grave 
and  calm;  the  lisjht  seemed  to  shine  out  of  it  rather 
than  upon  it;  and  the  eyes  were  deep  with  yearn- 
ing.  An  atmosphere  of  soft  light  moved  with  Him 
as  He  went;  His  steps  woke  no  echo;  His  figure 
cast  no  shadow.  At  the  end  of  the  village  street  He 
turned,  and  stood  for  an  instant  gazing  quietly  upon 
the  group  of  men  and  women  who  had  followed 
Him.   Instinctively  they  all  knelt,  and  bowed  their 
lieads.   He  stretched  out  His  hands  a  moment,  as 
if  in  benediction.   A  cock  crew  in  the  distance,  the 
little  brook  sang  in  the  glen,  the  first  ripple  of 
dawn  ran  along  the  east  in  a  faint  wash  of  gold. 
And  then  He  vanished  out  of  their  sight 

No  one  moved.  There  they  knelt  upon  the  rough 


IVAN  LEVIN  143 

village  street,  .usn,  women,  children,  while  the  dawn 
silently  overflowed  the  world. 
Then  the  voice  of  Ivan  Levin  was  heard  in  one 

ecstatic  cry: 

"  He  has  come,  He  has  come ! " 

The  old  man  stood  in  the  full  rays  of  the  rising 
sun,  his  face  illumined. 

"  He  has  come,  He  has  come !  " 

The  people  caught  the  cry,  it  passed  from  lip  to 
lip,  at  first  in  low  whispers,  presently  with  a  shout 
of  joy. 

They  rose  from  their  knees,  their  eyes  shining, 
their  bosoms  heaving,  their  hands  trembling,  like 
persons  inebriated  with  a  great  happiness.  They 
broke  into  song : 

Say  not  that  thou  hast  not  heard  Him, 
Gentle  though  the  knocking  be, 
It  is  He,  it  is  He! 

The  hymn,  with  its  half-plaintive,  half-trium- 
phant Russian  melody,  rang  out  dear  and  sweet 

upon  the  morning  air.  It  rang  across  the  empty 
prairie  like  a  challenge  to  the  sleeping  world. 

Stockmar  knelt  against  the  open  window,  no 
longer  watching  the  people  in  the  street;  his  lips 
moved  in  prayer.  For  the  first  time  in  forty  years 
he  prayed.  He  saw  once  more  the  plain  German 
home  where  he  was  born,  the  portrait  of  Luther 


144     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

on  the  wall,  the  picture  of  the  Good  Shepherd  with 
the  children  at  His  knees  that  hung  above  his  bed, 
his  mother's  face,  and  he  was  a  child  again  with 
his  head  upon  her  knees.  And  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  Man  whom  he  had  thus  seen  had  eyes  like 
his  mother's,  and  that  it  was  upon  His  knees  that 
his  head  was  now  laid,  and  that  it  was  to  Him  he 
sobbed  out  the  confession  of  a  misused  life. 

And  it  all  seemed  entirely  natural.  It  was  as 
though  all  his  life  had  been  always  moving  towards 
this  hour.  He  had  passed  beyond  astonishment  or 
surprise.  His  head  lay  upon  the  knees  of  Christ 
with  such  intense  satisfaction  that  it  seemed  he 
had  alwayi,  meant  ^o  do  this  thing,  that  all  the 
time,  through  al'  his  wanderings,  he  had  foreseen 
this  hour. 

The  dawn  filled  the  room:  he  was  still  praying. 
And  all  the  while  he  heard  almost  unconsciously  the 
hymn  caught  up  by  singer  after  singer  in  the  village 
street,  now  growing  faint,  now  swelling  out  in  new 
triumph : 

Say  not  that  thou  hast  not  heard  Him, 
Gentle  though  the  knocking  be, 
It  is  He.  it  is  He  I 


VIII 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD 

STOCKMAR  returned  to  New  York  to  find 
his  story  had  preceded  him. 
As  there  was  no  impending  war  to  be  dis- 
cussed, no  murder  trial  in  sight,  and  no  new  com- 
mercial scandal  to  absorb  the  public  mind,  the  papers 
seized  upon  the  Canora  episode  with  avidity.  At 
first  a  brief  telegram  appeared  stating  that  there  was 
much  excitement  among  the  Doukhobors,  who  be- 
lieved that  Christ  had  at  last  appeared  to  them. 
This  telegram  was  speedily  expanded  into  a  series 
of  sensational  articles.  Reporters  flocked  to  the 
remote  Doukhobor  settlement,  interviewed  Ivan 
Levin  and  many  other  persons,  and  produced  a 
series  of  highly  coloured  articles.  Stockmar's  pres- 
ence in  the  village  at  the  time  of  the  supposed  ap- 
pearance was  at  once  disclosed. 

All  through  the  long  journey  back  to  New  York 
Stockmar's  temper  was  one  of  extraordinary  exalta- 
tion. He  ate,  drank,  and  slept  like  a  man  in  a 
dream.  Between  him  and  his  fellow-travellers  it 
was  as  though  a  transparent  barrier  interposed;  he 

MS 


146     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

saw  them  moving  to  and  fro,  but  they  seemed  alto- 
gether unreal  and  infinitely  removed  from  him.  He 
sat  silent  for  hours,  gazing  out  upon  the  flying  scroll 
of  fields  and  farms,  but  what  he  really  saw  was 

not  there;  it  was  the  midnight  scene  in  the  street 
of  Canora.  The  rhythm  of  the  rushing  wheels  wove 
itself  into  the  rhythm  of  the  Doukhobor  hymn; 
they  sang  perpetually  "  He  will  come!  He  will 
come! "  He  lifted  the  blind  of  his  sleeping  berth  at 
midnight,  and  saw  not  the  sleeping  towns,  but 
painted  on  the  sky  the  face  of  Ivan  Levin,  the  awed 
crowd  of  peasants  kneeling  in  the  village  street, 
and,  above  all,  that  supreme  Figure  with  hand 
stretched  out  in  benediction.  And  as  he  looked  upon 
the  starry  sky,  in  which  the  waning  moon  hung  low, 
there  came  to  him  again  and  again  the  sense  that 
all  this  was  but  a  blue  curtain,  hanging  on  invisible 
pulleys,  and  that  it  might  lift  at  any  moment.  Once 
or  twice  a  fellow-traveller  spoke  to  him,  but  he 
made  no  reply.  He  felt  it  impossible  to  shape  his 
speech  to  the  ordinary  trivialities  of  travel.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  altogether  forgotten  the  language 
of  the  world ;  he  was  a  man  apart,  a  man  separated 
from  his  kind,  who  had  been  caught  up  into  the 
seventh  heaven,  and  had  heard  things  which  it  was 
not  lawful  for  a  man  to  utter. 

But  as  he  drew  nearer  to  New  York  the  ordinary 
human  world  intruded  more  and  more  upon  his 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  147 


senses.  As  the  dawn  broke  toward  the  end  of  his 
journey  he  saw  the  vast  line  of  lighted  windows 
in  the  electrical  manufactories  of  Schenectady, 
Albany  with  its  church  spires  and  uplifted  Capitol, 
the  Hudson  with  its  little  crowded  river  towns; 
symbols  these  of  that  strenuous  life  of  man  which 
rolls  on  in  its  fixed  groove,  careless  of  dreamers  and 
their  dreams.  Here  were  the  gross  facts  of  life 
as  they  appeared  to  most  men,  the  grey  implacable 
ordinariness  of  common  things.  How  contend 
against  this  insolent  assertion  of  itself  which  ma- 
terial fact  made  upon  the  senses?  Who  should  per- 
suade this  multitude  of  men  and  women,  whose 
lives,  rooted  in  use  and  custom,  exhausted  them- 
selves in  toil  for  bodily  bread  or  bodily  pleasure, 
that  this  was,  after  all,  a  spiritual  world — that  in 
its  silen'-es  the  feet  of  God  were  heard — that  above 
its  smoke  and  din  there  were  peopled  abysses  of  pure 
space? 

Yet  he  knew  that  he  must  speak,  and  he  had 
not  the  least  wish  to  escape  his  duty.  And  there 
was,  moreover,  a  feeling  in  his  heart  quite  new  to 
him:  a  tenderness  of  pity  for  his  fellows,  who  now 
for  the  first  time  were  realised  as  fellows. 

O,  to  save  these,  to  perish  for  their  saving. 
Die  for  their  life,  be  offered  for  them  all  I 

For  he  no  longer  regarded  the  meanest  man  with 


148     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

disdain;  his  former  scornful  estimate  of  the  dull 
average  of  mankind  had  been  replaced  by  a  sym- 
pathy that  was  almost  painful. 

As  he  neared  New  York  he  bought  of  a  newsboy 
a  morning  paper,  and  the  first  thing  that  met  his 
eye  was  a  bold  headline :  "  The  Doukhobors  Find 
the  Messiah."  Ihere  followed  what  purported  to 
be  a  full  account  of  the  occurrences  at  Canora.  It 
was  not  ill-done;  here  and  there  the  tone  was 
flippant,  but  upon  the  whole  it  gave  a  clear  and  strik- 
ing account  of  what  had  happened,  and  in  the 
closing  paragraph  the  reporter  himself  seemed  to 
have  been  overcome  with  a  sense  of  awe. 

"I  went  to  Canora,"  ran  this  paragraph,  "en- 
tirely prejudiced  as  any  rational  man  could  be 
against  the  truth  of  these  alleged  manifestations. 
I  do  not  now  allege  that  I  am  a  believer  in  them,  but 
I  hold  the  steadfast  opinion  that  something  has 
really  happened,  and  something  that  was  extraordi- 
nary. These  peasants  are  by  no  means  fools;  they 
are  simple-minded,  sincere,  and  honest,  and  of  quite 
average  intelligence.  I  am  convinced  that  no  one 
*of  those  to  whom  I  spoke  is  capable  of  wilful  false- 
hood. Their  agreement  as  to  what  they  saw,  or 
thought  they  saw,  is  absolute.  I  tested  the  story 
again  and  again,  but  without  being  able  to  shake 
it  on  any  essential  point.  I  must  confess  also 
that  the  entire  atmosphere  of  the  place  seemed  to 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  149 

impregnate  the  mind  with  the  seeds  of  belief.  I 
know  not  how  to  describe  what  I  felt;  what  I  do 
know  is  that  I  entered  the  place  with  a  profane 
jest  upon  my  lips,  and  I  left  it  in  a  state  of  awe.  It 

was  as  if  my  mind  walked  on  tiptoe." 

Stockmar  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  read  the 
passage.  It  exactly  described  his  own  feeling. 
Awe — breadiless  awe,  the  mind  on  tiptoe — yes,  that 
was  the  right  word,  and  this  half-sceptical  reporter 
had  realised  it,  in  spite  of  his  habitual  cynicism. 
Somehow  that  picture  of  the  man  with  a  profane 
jest  upon  his  lips,  suddenly  beaten  to  his  knees  by 
a  pressure  too  strong  for  him  to  resist,  seemed 
typical  of  what  would  happen  when  the  world  itself 
realised  the  story.  They  also  should  see  Him;  even 
they  who  had  pierced  Him. 

And  then  the  last  clause  of  the  article  caught 
his  eye :  "  We  understand  that  Rudolf  Stockmar, 
who  is  widely  known  as  one  of  our  most  brilliant 
critics,  was  present  on  the  night  of  these  occur- 
rences. He  left  immediately  and  is  reported  on 
his  way  to  New  York.  He  will  be  awaited  with  im- 
patience. It  is  to  him,  rather  than  to  Ivan  Levin, 
who  appears  to  be  the  leader  of  the  Doukhobors. 
that  the  world  will  turn  for  full  information  on  this 
mysterious  subject." 

The  train  was  now  nearing  New  York.  The 
Harlem  River  was  crossed,  the  long  plunge  into 


ISO     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

the  smoke-laden  tunnel  was  over,  and  there  loomed 
up  the  vast  cavity  of  the  Central  Station.  As  Stock- 
mar  passed  the  barrier  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his 
arm.  He  turned  quickly  and  saw  Field. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  said  the  great 
surgeon,  "  I  calculated  you  would  arrive  to-day. 
In  another  hour  your  presence  will  be  known  and 
half  the  reporters  in  New  York  will  be  at  your  door. 
I  want  you  to  give  me  that  hour." 

"  Willingly,"  said  Stockmar.  "  You  are  the  man 
of  all  men  I  wanted  to  see.  And  next  to  you  West. 
By  the  way,  how's  West?" 

"  West  also  has  been  seeing  visions,"  said  Field. 
"  Many  strange  things  have  happened  since  you  left 
New  York." 

The  two  men  entered  a  carriage  and  were  driven 
rapidly  to  Field's  home.  A  bright  log  fire  was  burn- 
ing in  Field's  private,  room.  The  public  rooms  were 
already  full  of  patients. 

"  These  must  wait,"  said  Field.  "  You  are  my 
chief  patient  to-day  —  although  I  don't  know 
whether  I  ought  not  to  call  myself  yours." 
'  He  stood  close  to  Stockmar,  regarding  him  with 
a  physician's  eye;  apparently  the  diagnosis  was  sat- 
isfactory, for  he  smiled  slightly. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  "  before  I  ask  you  to  speak 
let  me  say  one  word.  1  have,  of  course,  read  in 
the  papers  all  about  Canora.   It's  hardly  too  much 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  151 

to  say  that  millions  of  eyes  are  at  the  present  hour 

turned  toward  that  remote  spot.  Do  you  know  that 
there  is  already  a  disposition  to  believe  that  strange 

story?" 

"  I  have  just  read  an  article  written  by  a  reporter 
who  appeared  to  believe  it,"  said  Stockmar.  "  That 
is  as  far  as  my  knowledge  goes." 

"Well,  it  is  so,  incredible  as  it  appears.  And 
among  men  of  the  first  intellects,  too.  I  can  only 
explain  it  upon  one  ground,  which  is  that  the  reign 
of  materialism  is  over.  The  finest  minds  are  sick 
of  it.  They  have  discovered  its  inadequacy.  There 
is  a  violent  rebound  beginning  toward  the  opposite 
pole,  which  is  the  recognition  of  the  supernatural, 
or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  the  supersensuous,  tor 
I  don't  admit  such  a  thing  as  what  men  are  pleased 
to  call  the  supernatural." 

Field  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  im- 
pressive solemnity:  "Do  you  really  understand 
what  this  story  means — what  its  effect  will  be,  if 
it  comes  to  be  believed?  Why,  it  will  shake  the 
world! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Stockmar  simply,  "  I  believe  it  will." 

"  Well,  that  is  why  I  wanted  to  see  you  before 
the  reporters  got  hold  of  you.  I  wanted  to  sift 
your  story  thoroughly  for  myself,  before  you  gave 
it  to  the  world.  Not  from  personal  curiosity,  not 
even  from  scientific  curiosity,  though  I  admit  that 


iSa     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

the  latter  motive  does  exist  in  me,  but  because  I  am 
overwhelmed  with  the  thought  of  the  tremendous 
issues  which  are  involved.  Now  give  me  every 
detail,  and  may  God  give  us  both  understanding." 

Stockmar  thereupon  told  the  story  of  his  expe- 
riences, from  that  moment  in  the  Club  wlien  the 
scornful  speech  was  stricken  from  his  lips  by  the 
touch  of  a  divine  hand  to  the  hour  when  he  saw 
that  same  divine  hand  lifted  in  benediction  over 
the  kneeling  Russian  peasants  in  the  roadway  at 
Canora.  He  attempted  no  explanations;  he  simply 
told  the  story  in  direct  uncoloured  language.  It 
was  a  plain  man's  statement  of  plain  facts,  alto- 
gether impressive  by  its  absolute  lucidity.  Field 
listened  with  a  face  of  deepening  pallor.  Long 
accustomed  to  the  diagnosis  not  only  of  physical 
but  of  mental  conditions,  he  watched  Stockmar 
closely  while  he  spoke;  but  he  could  discover  no 
single  sign  of  mental  aberration.  In  Stockmar's 
choice  of  words,  in  the  orderliness  of  his  narration, 
in  his  even  tones,  in  his  complete  self-control,  there 
was  abundant  evidence  that  the  perfect  poise  of  his 
intellect  was  undisturbed.  If  it  had  been  other- 
wise. Field  would  not  have  been  surprised.  Indeed, 
he  half  suspected  some  proof  of  mental  aberra- 
tion, and  that  was  not  the  least  reason  why  he  de- 
sired to  see  Stockmar  immediately  on  his  arrival. 
When  Stockmar  finished,  Field  was  not  only  filled 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  l$3 

with  wonder — he  was  relieved  of  a  torturing  anx- 
iety, and  his  first  word  was  a  low-breathed  "  Thank 
Ckxl." 

It  was  some  time  before  either  man  spoke.  Each 
felt  the  moment  too  tremendous  for  the  Hghter 
forms  of  speech;  each  feU  in  vain  for  those  deeper 
words  which  the  occasion  needed.  It  was  Stock- 
mar  who  spoke  first.  "Field,"  he  said,  "do  you 
believe  it?" 

Field  rose  from  his  chair,  and  walked  up  and 

down  the  room  in  silence,  with  head  bowed  upon 
his  breast.  When  he  spoke  at  last  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  soliloquy.  He  appeared  to  have  for- 
gotten the  presence  of  Stockmar;  he  spoke  as  a 
man  alone,  reasoning  with  himself. 

"  Who  says  it  cannot  be  ?  I  tell  you  all  things 
are  possible  in  a  world  where  every  door  opens 
on  the  infinite.  Let  but  one  door  stand  ajar  out  of 
myriads — ^Eternity  comes  rushing  in.  *I  am  the 
Door ' — ^yes,  He  said  that — God's  open  door — a  life 
turning  on  a  secret  hinge.  Behr>!  *  I  have  opened 
a  door,  and  no  man  shall  close  it.  No,  because 
man  does  not  know  the  secret  of  the  hinge.  I 
am — well,  whal  .1?  I  am  a  rationalistic  mystic. 
My  reason  says  this  and  that  can't  happen;  some- 
thing else,  my  mysticism,  says  that  it  can.  Well, 
then,  in  little  things  I  will  obey  my  reason,  but  not 
in  the  great  thinjs.    Here,  too,  is  a  thing  that 


154     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


P 


11  >  ■ 


weighs:  they  say  He  rose  from  the  dead.  They 
piled  the  world  against  the  door,  hut  it  opened,  after 

all,  in  spite  I'f  them,  li  that  could  happen,  an  - 
tiling  can  lia]  /en  To  ccnqm  r  dea''  must  nec(! 
be  the  great>;.t  th.i----  of  all;  after  that  it  were  an 
easy  thing  ^  •  o  •  jner  time  and  space.  '  I  have  the 
keys  of  deaJi  and  IKules' — can't  He  then  uni  k  the 
door  of  one  bmall  world,  if  He  wills  to?— of  course 
He  can.  He  has  the  keys.  Yes :  it  must  be  so;  that 
is  reasonable,  isn't  it?  Isn't  this  what  faith  is,  a 
reason  above  reason — a  kind  of  vision?  Stockmar 
has  it.  West  has  it,  tv  u.  O,  my  God,  cannot  I 
reach  out  to  it  " 

He  stopped  suddenly  in  his  restless  walk.  Then 
it  was  as  liiough  the  i^rpltsily  upon  >  face  slowly 
dissolved  like  a  mist  upon  the  hills.  It  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  shining  brightness.  He  approached 
Stockmar,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  looked 
Icmg  into  his  eyes. 

"  '  Blessed  are  those  w     have  not  seen,  and  y 
believe,'  "  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.    "  Stockmar,  i 
believe." 

•  An  hour  had  passed ;  it  had  sc  -med  but  a 
ment.   Field  was  the  iirst  to  recc    lise  the  flight 
time. 

"  We  must  part  now,"  he  said.  "  How  strange 
to  take  up  the  common  things  jf  life  again.  It 
feels  like  falling  from  a  ballooi:  thif  r-om^^at  the 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  155 

lUrs  and  the  meastu  cless  spsxts,  the  next  the  dull 
earth.  B«t  no:  .lai  i  n<H  tn»,  e^er.  It  the 
earth  He  tho!»e  10  tread;  it  is  there  we  meet  Him, 
not  amone  the  star     He  also  he  ;ed  the  >'ck." 

He  pause**     ad  omx  mor<»  fell  into  the 
of  ra^  t  soli!  v. 

"  1  iC  dui.  c.  ii:  at       here  we  have  all 

made  «  ir  mist^Kc.  e  ■        found  it  dull,  1 

is  bccatJ  -e  we  ha/e  si.  k>  t  of  We  have 
taker  the  keys  of  uwa  .i^  ggen  s,  and  have 
uskI  '  ei  not  lock  e  uoor  for  .  s  cntnmce. 
^t  lu  ^  k  Hir  .1.  id  ye*  in  every  age  thert- 
have         on      tjo  have  suspecteil  their  mistake — 

—  ■■  t'  a  t!  1  the  whispers  of  frightened  chil- 
drei     l.ook  a   it — -Kcultism.  spiritualism,  w  izar 

vhai  are  !  but  the  whisptrs  01  frightened 
d'  at  a  '  door— ttibiiaie  guesses,  suspicion 
interrofe  — th  «nse  of  something  in  the  daii 
that  mc  ives—  k  sense  of  S(Miiething  in  one's 
'  vn  hfuxu  aat  cot  imunicates  with  that  unknown 
fo  or  F  esence, — and,  after  all,  that  Presence  not 
a;     nkindly  one  -not  one  to  be  feared — only  Jesus 

-  ■    >   et  into  a  world  wh'i  'i  has  thrust  Him 
ut.       -ii     low  men  feel.    Shut  up  in  materialism, 

are  u  cs,  but  not  content  with  it.  Always 

search  ^  dark  for  some  little  chink  through 
which  ihe  ii|^t  shines.  I  know  myself  and  I  know 
my  kind.    Stockmar,  I  tell  you  the  world  is  ready 


156     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

for  your  vision;  readier  than  you  or  I  can  guess. 
This  arrogant  New  York,  it  is  not  really  arrogant. 
Listen  to  its  secret  wailing,  its  falling  tears;  and 
what  is  it  it  says  in  the  secret  hours  when  none 
can  spy  upon  its  anguish  ?  '  They  have  taken  away 
my  Lord,  and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid 
Him  ' — that  is  what  it  says.  And  to  that  dim  host 
of  weeping,  supplicating  people  you  come,  and  say : 
'  I  know  He  is  not  dead.  I  have  seen  Him.*  Ah, 
if  they  believe  you — and  I  think  they  will — this  is 
the  greatest  hour  in  all  the  history  of  the  world. — 
Yes,  this  story  once  believed  will  shake  the 
world." 

"  But  there !"  he  added,  with  a  return  to  his  habit- 
ual voice  and  manner.  "  Who  is  sufficient  for  these 
things?  Forgive  this  eruption  of  speech.  Strange 
measureless  thoughts  seem  sweeping  over  me  like 
clouds,  and  among  them  I  grope  in  vain  for  lan- 
guage. Go  now,  my  friend.  New  York  waits  for 
you,  the  whole  world  waits.  May  God  give  you 
strength  to  witness  to  the  truth." 

He  put  his  arm  round  Stockmar's  shoulder  in 
-affectionate  farewell.  "  There  are  three  of  us."  he 
said  softly — "  you.  West,  and  T — Peter,  John,  and 
Thomas  called  Didymus. — Three  were  enough  then, 
three  will  be  enough  now — ^to  say  nothing  of  the 
disciples  at  Canora.  And  it's  the  same  world  after 
all;  above  all.  it's  the  same  Master." 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  157 

"  Yes,"  thought  Stockmar,  as  he  drove  through 
the  glittering  New  York  streets  to  his  home,  "  that 
is  true,  the  same  world,  but  the  same  Master." 

In  that  hour  there  came  to  him  for  the  first  time 
the  acquaintance  with  his  true  vocation.  Hitherto 
he  had  been  passive,  recipient.  He  had  been  ad- 
justing his  own  personality  to  a  new  range  of  per- 
ception. But  that  process  was  now  over.  Hence- 
forth he  must  be  a  witness  to  the  truth.  He  was 
the  custodian  of  a  message  to  the  world.  The 
thought  humbled  him,  but  it  also  invigorated  him. 
It  was  like  'he  call  of  a  trumpet,  stirring  the  fibre 
of  the  soldier  in  him.  And  he  obeyed  the  call  with- 
out the  least  thought  of  remonstrance,  as  he  had 
long  before  obeyed  the  battle  bugle  -A  Gravelotte. 
Those  brief  moments  marked  the  hour  of  his 
dedication. 

He  reached  his  rooms,  to  find  them,  as  Field  had 
warned  him,  thronged  with  reporters.  They  were 
for  the  most  part  a  boyish  throng.  They  spoke 
eagerly  and  quickly,  and  yet  beneath  their  buoyant 

manner  it  was  easy  to  discern  a  real  seriousness. 
To  them  he  told  the  story  of  Canora  with  the  same 
directness  and  simplicity  of  manner  which  Field  had 
found  so  noticeable. 

Then  came  the  inevitable  question :  "  And  do  you 
really  believe  all  this?" 

"  I  believe  it  absolutely,"  was  his  answo*. 


158     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

**  It  will  be  hard  to  make  New  York  believe  it," 
ventured  one  of  his  questioners. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  another. 
"  When  I  left  the  office  this  morning  the  old  man 
had  an  open  Bible  on  his  desk.  I've  never  seen 
one  there  before." 

"Do  you  never  read  your  Bibles?"  said  Stock- 
mar. 

"  I  guess  we  used  to,"  said  one  youth. 

"  Begin  to  read  them  again,"  he  replied. 

As  he  looked  upon  the  little  crowd  of  boyish 
faces,  for  the  most  part  so  frank,  though  already 
somewhat  worn  with  the  fever  of  the  city,  his  heart 
warmed  to  them.  '*  Let  me  read  you  something  be- 
fore you  go,"  he  said.  And  there  and  then  he 
began  to  read  the  story  of  Christ's  death  and  resur- 
rection, and  from  this  turned  back  to  the  solemn 
words  of  Jesus  in  His  last  conversations  with  His 
followers — ^the  definite  assertion  that  death  could 
not  interrupt  His  life,  the  definite  promise  of  a 
visible  return  to  earth,  the  <Treat  Parable  of  the 
Ten  Virgins,  the  yet  greater  Parable  of  the  Final 
Judgment  as  given  by  St.  Matthew.  They  had 
each,  no  doubt,  heard  these  solemn  passages  read  in 
church  a  hundred  times;  but  as  Stockmar  read 
them,  somehow  they  seemed  new  and  real.  Through 
them  the  man's  own  indomitable  faith  penetrated; 
mixed  with  them  were  broken  rays  of  vision  frmn 


IT  WILL  SHAKE  THE  WORLD  159 

Canora — Ivan  Levin  at  his  prayers,  the  Doukhobor 
hymn,  the  midnight  coming  of  the  Christ,  knock- 
ing on  the  closed  doors.  They  listened  in  pro- 
found attention.  One  or  two  bowed  their  heads — 
poor  lads,  the  memory  of  home  was  working  in 
them;  all  were  quite  reverent.  When  Stockmar 
finished  one  and  another  thanked  him. 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  replied.  "  Come  and  see 
me  when  you  like.  Dcn't  wait  the  next  time  for 
your  papers  to  send  you." 

Then  they  left  the  room,  and  Stockmar  was 
alone. 

Alone?  nay:  never  was  he  so  sure  of  a  Presence 
with  him  as  through  the  hours  of  that  long  after- 
noon. 

And  outside  in  New  York  the  words  that  he  had 
spoken  were  bei.ig  circulated  far  and  wide.  Busi- 
ness men,  hurrying  to  the  cars,  caught  the  glaring 
headlines,  bought  the  papers,  and  stood  at  the  street 
comers  reading  them,  indifferent  to  the  loss  of  time. 
Clerks,  stenografrfiers,  artisans,  fashionable  women, 
even  the  loungers  of  the  clubs,  were  all  absorbed 
in  the  same  moment  by  the  same  printed  words. 
They  were  startled,  they  were  stupefied.  It  was 
very  Grange.  What;  was  there  something  real  in 
iih/j.  I,  after  all?  They  lifted  curious  thoughtful 
e>;  CO  the  spires  of  the  many  churches,  outlined 
against  the  dim  evening  ^ies.    These  weighted 


i6o     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

silent  buildings— were  they,  after  all,  the  temples 
of  some  sacred  mystery,  did  they  hide  within  their 
gloom  some  supreme  secret?  Strange,  if  this  were 
so,  that  tney  had  said  so  little  of  it.  Then  this 
was  miraculous,  and  miracles  did  not  happen; 
had  not  the  very  priests  of  these  dark  churches, 
who  ought  to  know,  said  so  a  thousand  times? 
And  so  some  read  the  paper  angrily  and  thrust  it 
from  them,  only  to  read  it  yet  again.  And  some 
smiled  scornfully,  and  some  read  with  empty  won- 
der. But  more  defined  than  even  scorn  or  wonder, 
was  a  little  wave  of  fear  that  began  to  rise  about 
men's  hearts.  It  was  as  yet  but  a  ripple,  but  it 
grew;  a  cold  wave  of  apprehension  that  quenched 
thoughtless  gaiety,  and  put  out  the  fires  of  folly. 
New  York  slept  uneasily  that  night. 


IX 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED 

NEW  YORK  slept,  woke,  wondered;  slept 
again,  and  woke  yet  again  to  find  the 
Canora  story  still  strongly  focussed  in 
the  public  vision. 

In  the  ordinary  course  the  story  would  have  been 
a  day's  wonder — ^no  more,  ar.d  then  would  have 
been  submerged  in  the  usual  flood  of  newspaper 
trivialities. 

But  this  story,  so  positive,  so  clearly  witnessed, 
was  not  to  be  lightly  dismissed.  It  was  discussed 
everywhere,  and  for  the  most  part  with  seriousness. 
One  learned  man  came  forward  with  a  theory  that 
the  whole  thing  might  be  explained  by  suggestion. 
No  one  need  question  the  sincerity  of  the  witnesses, 
but  who  were  they  ?  Ivan  Levin,  the  common  type 
of  the  religious  enthusiast.  It  is  he  who  conceives 
the  vision;  it  is  he  who  works  upon  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  followers  by  his  predictions  until  at  last 
they  are  wrought  into  a  state  of  eager  anticipation. 
Nothing  was  commoner  than  for  men  to  see  what 
they  expected  to  see.  It  is  a  case  of  self-hypnotism. 

i6i 


i6a     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Then  comes  Stockmar,  for  whose  intellectual  quali- 
ties and  learning  every  one  should  have  respect. 
But,  by  his  own  confession,  Stockmar  had  suffered 
from  some  strange  seizure,  which  in  all  probability 
predisposed  him  to  hallucinations.  In  his  inter- 
view with  Levin  the  effect  of  suggestion  is  clearly 
traceable.  Then  comes  the  climax  which  any  acute 
psychologist  might  have  anticipated.  A  whole  com- 
munity, among  whom  there  is  but  one  man  of  edu- 
cation, accustomed  to  the  laws  of  evidence,  the  rest 
ignorant  peasants,  suddenly  believes  that  it  beholds 
an  actual  vision  of  Christ. 

The  theory  was  plausible,  and  no  doubt  proved 
soothing  to  many  minds  not  acute  enough  to  per- 
ceive that  the  resurrection  of  Christ  itself— that 
central  fact  of  all  the  Christian  faith— might  be 
explained  away  upon  just  the  same  terms.  It  was 
a  theory  that,  if  it  were  true,  proved  too  much; 
and  for  that  reason  it  carried  no  weight  with  men 
of  genuine  intelligence. 

Then  another  learned  man  propounded  a  yet 
subtler  theory.  So  far  as  it  could  be  understood — 
^and  it  was  not  altogether  easy  of  comprehension — 
it  assumed  that  there  were  certain  periodic  disturb- 
ances of  the  world's  atmosphere  which  had  a  great 
eflfect  on  persons  of  abnormal  imaginative  sensitive- 
ness. During  such  disturbances  sounds  might  be 
transmitted  with  unusual  clearness,  or  the  physical 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED  163 

vision  might  be  sharpened  into  abnormal  activity. 
Thus  there  was  a  well-known  legend  very  popular 
in  Flanders,  that  Christ  had  actually  appeared,  and 

had  walked  upon  the  waters,  d.uring  a  great  storm 
off  the  coast  of  Ostend ;  but  the  key  to  the  story  was 
found  beyond  doubt  in  the  storm  itself,  in  the  tur- 
moil of  the  sea  and  sky,  and  in  the  fear  which  they 
produced. 

But  to  this  theory  men  paid  less  heed  than  to  the 
other;  for  there  was  no  proof  of  atmospheric  dis- 
turbance at  Canora,  but  on  the  contrary  a  condition 

of  complete  tranquillity. 

And  then  there  was  West's  story,  for  this  too  had 
found  its  way  into  the  papers.  Here,  indeed,  there 
was  no  allegation  of  the  supernatural  or  the  super- 
sensuous;  but  in  five  minutes'  speech  with  a  com- 
plete stranger  the  temper  of  West's  mind  had  been 
completely  altered.  Who  was  this  stranger?  No 
one  had  seen  him  enter  the  diurch;  no  one  had  seen 
him  leave  it.  It  was  as  though  he  had  stepped  out 
of  the  bodiless  air,  and  returned  again  to  it. 

And  over  and  above  these  things  there  was  some- 
thing else  which  was  full  of  significance.  As  a 
prairie  fire  springs  up  at  a  dozen  points  at  once,  so 
all  over  the  world  the  flame  of  faith  :n  the  immedi- 
ate coming  of  Christ  had  suddenly  appeared. 
ThnMiged  churches  were  reported  in  Rome,  and 
throughout  Italy  the  shrines  of  popular  saints  were 


i64     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

crowded.  In  London,  a  famous  preacher,  speaking 
beneath  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  had  startled  his 
hearers  by  a  declaration  of  his  faith  in  the  immedi- 
ate judgment  of  the  world.  In  tlic  Soiilhcrn  States 
of  America,  among  the  coloured  people,  there  was 
strange  religious  unrest.  There  were  vast  gather- 
ings for  song  and  prayer;  a  wave  of  ecstatic  re- 
vivalism began  to  roll  across  the  country,  and  the 
plough  stood  neglected  in  the  fields,  the  throb  of 
joyous  life  was  silent  in  the  cities.  Even  among 
the  tribes  of  the  desert  strange  movements  were 
reported,  and  although  no  one  could  accurately  de- 
scribe or  explain  them,  every  one  knew  that  they  had 
their  origin  in  some  profound  religious  emotion. 
So,  over  all  the  world,  there  seemed  to  brood  some 
influence  at  once  awful  and  unspeakable.  No  one 
could  define  it,  for  few  dared  to  analyse  it,  but  all 
felt  it — a  weight  of  solemn  dread  that  had  sud- 
denly descended  on  the  world,  and  hushed  its 
clamour  to  a  waiting  stillness. 

Perhaps  the  strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  amid 
this  immense  whispering  fear  which  had  invaded 
*  a  million  homes,  the  Church  remained  absolutely 
silent.  Leading  ministers  of  New  York,  inter- 
viewed by  various  papers,  refused  to  commit  t''em- 
selve^^  .0  any  definite  opinions.  The  Sunday  came 
round,  the  people  waited  for  a  sign,  but  from  the 
great  majority  of  these  pulpits  no  sign  came. 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED  165 

"  Can  it  be/'  remariced  one  leading  journal,  "  that 
the  Church  which  has  for  ages,  in  its  creeds,  its 

liturgies,  its  teachings,  and  its  hymns,  affirmed  the 
actual  coming  of  Christ  to  judge  the  world,— can 
it  be  that  the  Church  has  all  the  time  affirmed  as 
truth  that  which  was  to  itself  an  impossibility  or  a 
lie  ?  It  is  a  strange  situation.  A  number  of  people 
in  the  world  suddenly  affirm  as  fact  that  which 
the  Church  has  long  taught  as  doctrine;  but 
instead  of  receiving  this  unexpected  testimony 
with  gratitude  and  triumph,  the  Church  has 
not  a  word  to  say.  It  maintains  an  obstinate 
silence,  which  can  only  be  interpreted  as  the  sym- 
bol of  its  incredulity,  or  perhaps  of  its  sense  of 
offence." 

Certainly  the  Church  showed  no  sign  of  receiv- 
ing Stockmar's  testimony  with  either  gratitude  or 
triumph.  The  fact  was  that  the  leaders  of  the 
Church  were  bewildered.  And  because  they  were 
bewildered  they  temporised. 

Thus  there  came  to  West's  house  one  morning 
old  Dr.  Littleton,  his  predecessor  in  the  pastorate. 
Dr.  Littleton  had  long  since  retired  from  active 
work,  and  had  taken  up  in  his  old  age  the  studies 
which  he  had  abandoned  in  his  prime.  He  had  al- 
ways taken  a  fatherly  interest  in  West.  At  first  he 
had  given  but  af  qualified  approval  of  West's 
opinions,  although  he  had  never  wavered  in  his  high 


|66     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


appreciation  of  West's  abilities.  But  as  time  went 
on  his  own  opinions  had  suffered  a  change.  His 

release  from  the  pastorate  before  the  mind  was 
dulled  had  given  him  the  opportunity  for  the  re- 
tired life  of  scholarship  which  he  had  always 
coveted  secretly;  but  it  had  also  had  another  effect 
upon  him,  of  which  he  was  but  dimly  conscious. 
When  he  was  in  the  pastorate  he  was  constantly 
forced  to  test  the  value  of  his  thinking  by  its  effect 
upon  the  minds  of  ordinary  men.  What  were  mere 
theories  worth,  if  they  were  unintelligible  to  the 
minds  of  ordinary  men?  Tliese  were  the  men  he 
had  to  help  and  instruct  if  he  could,  and  to  do  so, 
he  had  to  bring  his  mind  within  their  range  oi  ap- 
prehension. The  result  was  wholesome.  He  con- 
stantly corrected  his  own  thought  by  the  average 
thought  of  his  people,  as  a  watch  is  corrected  by 
the  omunon  time. 

But  with  his  retirement  from  the  pastorate  the 
process  was  reversed.  He  now  lived  in  the  sole 
company  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  the  opportunity 
of  correcting  these  thoughts  by  commerce  with  prac- 
tical life  was  gone.  He  had  soon  reached  the  con- 
dition when  all  truth  is  thought  and  not  belief.  In 
other  words,  all  truth  was  debatable,  and  had  for 
its  sole  organ  the  intelligence. 

The  old  man  shook  hands  heartily  with  West. 
His  first  question  was  "Where's  Helen?"  for 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED  167 

Helen  had  always  been  a  favourite  of  his,  and  he 
had  treated  her  as  a  daughter. 

"  She's  quite  well,  I  believe,"  said  West. 

"I  believe— eh?  What's  that  mean?  Isn't  she 

here?" 

"  No,  she's  goiT'  away." 

"  Gone  away  ?  Gone  home  for  a  visit,  1  sup- 
pose  r 

*•  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth  at  once,"  said 
West.  "  She  'tos  gone  home  to  stay.  She  has  left 
me. 

"  Why,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  shocked  voice, 
"this  is  very  dreadful.  Pray,  what  has  hap- 
pened ?  " 

"  She  has  acted  entirely  within  her  rights,"  said 
West,  "  and  I  cannot  blame  her.  She  entirely  dis- 
approves of  my — well,  let  us  say  my  views.  She 
felt  her  intellectual  honour  compromised  by  remain- 
ing with  me,  and  so  she  has  gone." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say  that  any  kind  of  view 
you  have  is  more  to  you  than  your  wife?  You  will 
lose  your  wife  for  a  vie  ^  Why,  this  is  mere  mid- 
summer madness.  My  dear  fellow,  you  can't  be  in 
earnest." 

"  I  am  entirely  in  earnest,"  said  West.  "  Dr. 
Littleton,  I  fear  I  cannot  make  my  position  clear  to 
you,  but  do  please  try  to  understand  me.  I  have 
come  to  believe  certain  things  as  true — absolutely 


i68     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


true.  Hrlcii  could  not  believe  them.  I  had  to 
choose  between  her  and  the  truth.  What  could  I 
do  but  choose  the  truth?" 

The  old  mnn  was  greatly  disturbed. 

"  You  certainly  can't  make  tliat  position  intelli- 
gible to  uic,"  he  said.  "  Why,  what  is  truih?  No 
truth  is  absolute;  all  truth  is  relative — you  know 
that  well  enough.  I  wouldn't  give  a  row  of  pins  for 
the  finest  abstract  truth  the  human  mind  ever  con- 
ceived, if  it  meant  the  rupture  of  love,  the  sacrifice 
of  fidelity  to  spoken  vows,  an  outrage  on  old  sacred 
affections.  No,  sir,  God  made  us  to  love  one  an- 
other, not  to  quarrel  about  thoughts  and  views." 

"  Surely  God  meant  us  also  to  buy  the  truth  and 
sell  it  not — e\\  n  for  the  sweet  bribe  of  the  tenderest 
affection,  Dr.  Littleton?" 

"  Ah,  I  begin  to  get  a  little  light  upon  this  prob- 
lem," said  the  old  man,  with  acerbity.  "  I've  read 
all  this  stuff  about  you  in  the  papers,  and  I  took 
leave  to  believe  it  false.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me, 
Francis  West,  that  at  your  time  of  life,  with  your 
mind  and  training,  you've  become  a  mere  crack- 
.  brained  fanatic — that  you've  let  that  sweet  woman 
go  out  of  your  life  all  on  account  of  some  irrational 
illusion  with  which  you  have  taken  up  ? " 

"Isn't  that  begging  the  question?"  said  West. 
"What  you  call  illusion  I  call  truth.  Dr.  Little- 
ton, will  you  let  me  put  a  question  to  you?" 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED  i«9 

"  A  hundred,  if  you  pleatc,"  said  the  old  man,  in 
a  harsh  voice. 
"  Well,  let  us  say  two  or  three — they  will  serve," 

said  West,  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  Do  you  believe  Dr.  Littleton  that  Jesus  Christ 
did  actually  pronii.sc  to  appear  again  on  earth, 
visibly  I  mean,  and  as  a  person?" 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"Did  not  the  entire  early  Church  accept  that 
premise  in  its  plain  significance?" 

"  I  ^appose  so." 

"  Then  what  has  happened  to  make  that  promise 
void?  Ought  not  we  to  hold  the  same  belief  ?  How 
can  we  dispense  with  that  lielief  without  dishonour- 
ing our  Lord  and  breaking  wiui  the  great  historical 
ti  edition  of  Christianity  ' ' 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  q"i^  -v  you,"  said  tfie 
old  man. 

"Yet  the  sequence  of  ti.oug.it  is  clear,"  said 

West. 

"Clear? — yes,  if  you  are  a  mere  literalist." 

"  I  am  literalist  enough  to  accept  plain  words  in 
their  plain  meaning,    said  West 

"  And  it  is  just  at  this  point  i  join  issue,"  said 
Littleton.  "The  words  are  not  plain;  they  are 
vague  symbolic  utterances.  They  were  never  in- 
tended to  be  taken  in  their  literal  meaning  That 
was  where  the  early  Christians  were  mistaken. 


I/O     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

After  a  century  or  two  they  found  out  their  mis- 
take. The  generations  passed  and  the  heavens  gave 
no  sign.  Then  they  turned  their  thoughts  to  earth. 
They  found  they  had  a  vast  and  powerful  organisa- 
tion called  the  Church,  and  they  bent  their  energies 
to  making  this  organisation  the  most  potent  weapon 
that  was  ever  forged  for  the  control  of  human  life 
and  conduct.  Of  course  they  kept  up  a  kind  of  faith 
in  a  second  coming  of  Christ,  it  was  a  tremendous 
threat  which  was  necessary  to  their  power,  and  they 
sang  their  Dies  Irae,  and  so  forth." 

**  Yes,  they  sang  their  Dies  Ira;,  and  sold  indul- 
gences for  sin,"  broke  ir  West.  "  They  would  never 
have  done  that  if  they  had  really  believed  in  a  Christ 
who  would  be  their  judge.  All  apostasies  of  the 
Church  have  sprung  from  that  unbelief.  And  as  it 
has  been  through  the  ages,  so  it  is  to-day.  We  sing 
the  Dies  Irae  too— as  a  music-il  performance.  We 
don't  sell  indulgences  for  sin,  but  we  let  rich  men 
buy  or  bribe  the  Church,  which  is  much  the  same 
thing.  And  whcp  plain  men  come  to  us  with  their 
Bibles  in  their  hands,  and  say,  '  Look.  Jesus  Christ 
said  this  or  that,'  we  reply,  '  Yes,  but  He  didn't 
mean  it.  He  spoke  in  symbols,  you  know.'  And 
when  these  plain  men  go  away  perplexed  and  sor- 
rowful, we  call  them  ignorant,  and  we  despise  them; 
and  we  call  ourselves  wise  because  we  have  dis- 
solved plain  truth  into  a  mist  of  equivocal  and  lying 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED 


171 


words.  Dr.  Littleton,  is  it  not  true  that  the  great 
mass  of  the  plain  people  have  ceased  to  come  to 
church,  and  is  not  the  real  reason  this,  that  they 
believe  us,  the  ministers  of  the  Church,  untruth- 
ful?" 

"  Stop,  stop !  "  cried  the  old  man  angrily.  "  I  will 
not  hear  you  slandering  yourself  and  the  Church 
you  serve." 

"Is  it  slander?"  said  West  quietly.  "Consider 

what  it  is  that  vvc  have  done,  these  many  years — 
you,  I,  almost  all  of  us.  A  plain  man  takes  his  Gos- 
pels, ojK'us  tlietn,  reads  tlu-ni,  feels  them  true,  and  is 
ihi  ilkd  and  alarmed  by  what  he  finds  in  them.  He 
conies  to  us  with  his  alarms,  and  what  do  we  say  to 
him  ?  '  Why,*  we  say,  *  you  are  in  error,  and  have 
read  your  Bible  wrongly.'  '  Show  me  where  I  am 
wrong,'  he  says.  '  I  find  it  said  here  that  Jesus  is 
Go<l.  Is  not  that  true  ?  '  '  It  is  a  symbol  of  truth,' 
we  reply ;  '  what  is  really  meant  is  that  Jesus  is  a  good 
man,  indeed  the  best  of  men,  and  therefore  in  a 
sense  tlie  divinest.*  '  But  it  is  said  He  wrought 
many  miracles:  is  not  that  true?'  '  O,  j)eople 
thouj^ht  it  true  at  the  time,'  we  reply,  *  and  of 
course  something  happened ;  but  certainly  it  did  not 
happen  as  it  is  recordttl  here.'  '  But  it  is  said  He 
rose  from  the  dead:  is  not  that  true? '  '  Well,  His 
sold  rose  from  the  dead,  every  soul  does,  you  know; 
but  this  part  of  the  story  as  it  stands  is  only  poetry 


172     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


and  symbol.'  *  I  see,'  says  the  plain  man  at  last; 
'  it  is  all  poetry  and  symbol.  But  do  you  know, 
sir,  it  looks  to  me  very  like  lying? '  Then  the  plain 
man  goes  away,  quite  relieved  of  all  his  fears. 
These  things  that  had  alarmed  him  had  really  noth- 
ing in  them,  after  all.  It  is  true  Jesus  spoke  of  a 
future  judgment,  but  then  He  didn't  mean  it,  and 
even  if  He  did.  He  was  probaUy  mistaken.  It  is 
true  He  said,  '  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  to  the 
poor,*  but  clearly  He  could  not  have  meant  that, 
for  no  one  thinks  of  doing  it,  however  pious  he 
may  be.  And  it  is  true  He  talked  of  coming  again, 
but  since  no  one  expects  Him,  and  least  of  all  His 
Church,  it  is  clear  that  these  were  idle  words. 
Presently  the  plain  man  hears  us  lamenting  that  he 
will  not  come  to  church,  and  he  says  coarsely, 
'  Well,  why  should  I?  You  have  nothing  to  teach 
me,  and  you  can't  help  me.  Why,  you  don't  your- 
selves believe  the  things  you  say;  you  use  words 
with  double  meanings,  and  there  is  no  truth  in  you. 
Thank  you  for  nothing.    I  won't  come ! ' 

"  Dr.  Littleton,  can  you  honestly  declare  that  in 
.  saying  these  things  I  utter  slander?" 

"Well,  if  not  ^nder,  madness,"  said  the  old 
man.    "  Slander  presupposes  sanity." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  are  angry,  and  that  your 
anger  makes  you  unjust,"  said  West. 

"  I  am  not  unjust,"  he  retorted.  "  It  is  you  who 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED 


»73 


are  unjust  in  what  you  choose  to  say  about  your 
brethren  in  the  ministry.  The  ministers  of  the 
C  hristian  Church  to-day  are  a  noble  body  of  men, 
They  have  a  very  difficult  task  to  perform.  They 
have  to  interpret  Christian  truth  in  modern  forms, 
— it  is  by  these  means  alone  they  can  make  it  in- 
telligible. You  can't  make  a  scientific  age  believe 
in  things  which  passed  unquestioned  among  Galilean 
fishermen.  To  claim  authority  for  unintelUgfl^ 
statonents  is  suicidal." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  West,  "htw  difficult  is  the 
task  of  interpreting  Christian  truth  in  modem 
forms.  I  also  know  what  the  process  involves — 
the  complete  capitulation  sooner  or  later,  of  the  soul 
to  the  intellect,  the  spiritual  intuition  to  the  reason. 
The  question  in  my  mind  is  whether  the  modern 
minister  is  really  called  upon  to  attempt  this  proc- 
ess; whether  it  originates  in  any  higher  netive 
than  his  own  pride  of  intellect." 

"  He  must  do  it  to  get  a  hearing,"  Littleton  re- 
plied. 

"Must  he?  Ah,  I  thought  so  once,  but  I  have 
discovered  my  mistake.  Can  you  deny,  my  dear 
Doctor,  that  the  Church  has  lost  authority  in  these 
days,  that  its  authority  never  stood  so  low  as  now  ? 
Have  you  asked  why?  I  have  many  times.  The 
question  has  been  a  torture  to  me." 

"Well?"  said  the  old  man  grimly. 


174     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


"  I  think  I  have  found  the  trcK  answer  at  last. 
It  is  this  very  effort  to  ii:terpret  Christian  troth 

in  modern  forms  which  has  cost  the  Church  its 
authority.  Men  respect  convictions.  Men  will  both 
rcsiH-'ct  and  obey  a  Cinirch  wiiich  controius  them 
vvitii  plain,  direct,  authoritative  declarations  of 
truth,  even  though  this  truth  contradicts  the  rea- 
son. But  men  will  neither  respect  nor  obey  a  Church 
whidi  spends  its  time  in  explaining  truth  away. 
The  i^in  man  looks  for  plain  and  unequivocal 
statements  from  those  who  profess  to  be  his  spirit- 
ual teachers  and  masters.  Subtlety  distresses  him. 
mental  reservation  enrages  him.  There  is  only  one 
method  by  which  the  Church  can  win  the  world: 
command  it — don't  apologise  to  it." 

Littleton  rose  from  his  seat,  pushing  it  from  him 
with  an  angry  gesture. 

"  I  see  we  shall  never  agree,"  he  said.  "  And  be 
quite  sure  of  it  none  of  your  brethren  will  agree 
with  you." 

"  But  the  plain  men  will,  I  think." 

"  The  plain  men — obscurantists,  literalists,  fanat- 
ics. |)e()plc  without  iiUelligcnce;  I  hope  you  may 
like  their  company,  God  forgive  me,  but  I  think 
I  would  rather  see  you  dead  than  in  such  company. 
I  don't  wonder  Helen  left  you." 

The  thought  of  Helen  suddenly  softened  the  old 
man's  heart  toward  West.  Surely  the  whole  thing 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED  175 


must  be  a  dream,  some  dreadful  nightmare  that 
vanishes  before  the  first  ray  of  Hght.  They  had 
been  so  happy  together — Francis  and  Helen.  He 
had  been  present  at  their  marriage;  he  had  watched 
their  lives;  he  had  the  pride  of  a  father  in  their 
happiness.  And  for  West's  mind,  with  its  subtlety 
and  clearness,  its  broad  range  and  quick  apprehcn* 
sion,  he  had  felt  more  than  admiration.  What  was 
this  strange  force  which  had  in  an  instant  come  be- 
tween the  husband  and  wife,  driving  them  apart? 
And  as  he  realised  the  tragedy  of  it  all,  anger  left 
him,  and  piiy  took  its  place. 

"  West."  he  said,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  I  think 
you  know  I  love  you.  Forgive  nie,  if  I  have  spoken 
to  you  harshly.  I  spoke  with  the  freedom  of  a 
father.  I  can't  understand  you,  but  I  have  never 
known  you  fail  in  truth.  Tell  me  from  your 
heart,  as  in  the  presence  of  God,  are  you  so  sure  of 
your  position  that  you  can't  turn  back?" 

"  I  am,  sir.   I  can't  turn  back." 

"  Not  even  for  Helen?  Give  me  but  one  ground 
for  hope,  oven  the  smallest.  I  will  go  to  her.  I  will 
bring  her  back  with  me.  It  can't  be  lliat  an  opinion 
can  separate  those  who  truly  love  each  other." 

"  This  is  not  an  opinion.  It  is  something  the 
surest  of  the  sure,  the  clearest  of  the  clear.  It  is  an 
absolute  conviction." 

"  Conviction  of  what  ?  " 


1/6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  That  Jesus  Christ  has  spoken  to  me — has  given 

me  a  command — told  me  certain  things  that  I  must 
do. — If  it  meant  death,  I  must  do  them.  If  it  nKans 
the  death  of  love,  still  I  must  do  them." 

"  Certain  things.   What  things?  " 

"  Briefly,  that  He  is  coming — His  manifestation 
is  at  hand,  and  I  must  witness  for  Him  to  an  apos- 
tate Church — to  a  Church  in  which  I,  alas,  have 
long  lived  as  an  apostate." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  the  old  man  said  sadly. 
"  I  have  tried  to  walk  in  the  light  of  truth  all  my 
days,  but  this  seems  to  me  not  light,  but  the  dark- 
cloud  of  a  great  delusion.  I  thought  the  vvorliJ  had 
passed  out  of  the  range  of  such  delusions  for  ever. 
It  seems  I  am  back  again  in  the  Middle  Ages.  O, 
can't  I  do  something  to  help  you?  " 

"  You  can  pray  for  me,  sir.  Yes,  and  there  is 
something  else  I  would  like  you  to  do.  Go  to  Helen, 
and  tell  her  my  love  for  her  is  quite  unchanged — 
that  " 

He  broke  down  at  that  word.  He  sat  at  the  table 
as  on  the  night  when  she  had  left  him,  his  face  cov- 
ered with  his  hands,  tears  oozing  through  his  locked 
fingers. 

"  That  Christ  understands  all  about  it,"  he  added. 
"Only  I  must  love  Him  first.  'He  that  lovelh 
wife  or  child  more  than  Him  is  not  worthy  of 
Him.'" 


BUT  SOME  DOUBTED  \77 


"  God  help  yoa,  my  son.  I  see  I  cannot.  Alas, 

I  can  only  vex  you." 

And  so  Dr.  Littleton  left  him:  shaken  in  his  emo- 
tions, bnt  not  in  his  opinions.  The  old  man  marched 
off  sturdily  upon  the  road  of  his  negations,  finding 
in  its  hard,  dry  light  all  the  invigoration  that  his 
nature  needed.  He  did  not  notice  the  barrenness 
of  the  landscape,  he  did  not  feel  the  chill  of  the  air. 
Nor  was  he  aware  that  no  flowers  of  faith  grew  by 
the  wayside,  and  that  the  atmosphere  had  no 
perfume. 


X 


MERCY  LANE 

A  FTER  Dr.  Littleton  left  him  West  sat  a  long 
/-\  time  thinking  over  the  details  of  their  inter- 
view.  It  saddened  him  that  a  man  of  Little- 
ton's purity  of  life  and  strength  of  character  should 
be  hostile  to  him.  and  he  soiijiht  earnestly  for  a  rea- 
son At  last  that  reason  .<;re\v  distinct  to  him.  Did 
not  Jesus  Himself  sny  that  unless  a  man  became  as 
a  little  child  he  could  not  enter  into  the  Kingdom 
of  God?  It  was  clear,  then,  that  Jesus  was  thor- 
oughly aware  that  His  ideas  could  only  be  received 
by  minds  that  were  childlike,  that  is,  were  simple. 
The  more  thorou^'hly  tlie  mind  was  saturated  with 
the  wisdom  of  men,  the  more  unintelligible  to  it 
woi-'d  lM?come  those  di\  iiie  ideas  which  owed  noth- 
infj;  to  w  iriilly  wisd  nn,  c\erythinjj[  to  an  iimer  lijjht. 
,  Littleton  iiad  anipie  wisdom,  of  the  intellectual  kind, 
but  he  had  lost  the  inner  light.  And  as  it  was  with 
Littleton  so  it  was  with  great  numbers  of  his  breth- 
ren in  the  ministry ;  they  no  longer  lived  by  the  inner 
light.    Here,  then,  lay  the  materials  of  his  own 

resolve.    Whatever  happened  of  derision  or  con- 

178 


MERCY  LANE 


»79 


tempt  he  was  safe  so  long  as  he  lived  by  the  inner 
light,  and  he  could  be  safe  in  no  other  way.  To 

know  Christ  must  mean  for  him,  as  it  had  meant 
for  Paul,  the  abandonment  of  all  other  knowledfje ; 
at  least  of  any  trust  in  any  other  kind  of  knowledge. 

These  thoughts,  fragmentary  as  they  were,  and 
not  altogether  clear,  nevertheless  were  of  great 
service  to  him.  For  he  had  promised  on  the  even- 
ing of  this  day  to  address  his  congregation,  and 
hitherto  he  had  been  uncertain  what  course  he  ought 
to  take.  He  saw  now,  in  a  flash  of  light,  that  the 
only  thing  he  could  do  was  to  confess  his  faith. 
That  was  all  that  Paul  did,  all  that  the  first  Apos- 
tles (lid.  They  had  become  children  in  nothing  so 
much  as  this  that  they  scorned  all  argument,  and 
indeed,  seemed  incapable  of  argument.  They  were 
children  also  in  their  quiet  assumption  that  what  in- 
terested thcni  must  needs  interest  the  whole  world. 
And  it  was  by  these  weapons  they  conquered.  Com- 
ing with  their  fresh  childish  wonder-story  into  the 
presence  of  men  sated  with  worldly  wisdom,  they 
first  charm-;  I  them  by  their  simplicity,  then  con- 
vinced them  by  their  sincerity,  and  finally  turned 
the  whole  world  back  to  a  new  childhood.  Might 
not  the  same  thing  happen  again,  since  the  same 
causes  in  every  age  produce  the  same  effects? 

As  the  afternoon  drew  on,  he  had  another  visitor. 
The  Church  of  the  Redemption  was  not  wholly  self- 


I 


i8o     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


conirctl;  upon  a  small  scale  it  did  some  philan- 
thropic work  in  one  of  the  poorer  districts  of  the 
city.  It  was  done,  however,  rather  as  a  salve  to 
conscience  than  upon  any  general  impulse  of  social 
ahruism.  It  was  never  ilitf'  ill  to  get  money  fi>r 
the  work,  hut  it  1i:kI  always  I  -  i  ii  impossible  t<i  find 
voluntary  workers.  It  was  iK-ttcr  to  do  the  work 
in  this  way,  no  doubt,  than  not  to  do  it  at  all,  but 
it  was  a  poor  way.  Persons  of  the  order  of  Mrs. 
Lorimer  were  always  willing  to  give  money,  but 
they  would  have  been  affronted  had  personal  serv- 
ice been  requested  of  them.  The  plan  adapted 
therefore  had  been  the  employment  of  certain  pa. J 
agents  to  do  the  work,  and  among  them  was  Mercy 
Lane,  who  usually  called  at  this  hour  every  week  to 
render  her  report. 

Mercy  Lane  was  a  very  quiet  person.  She  spoke 
in  a  low  voice,  moved  with  a  gliding  softness,  had 
an  air  of  precision,  and  did  her  work  with  method 
and  patient  thoroughness.  She  dressed  always  in 
sober  colours,  which  admirably  suited  the  sweet 
gravity  of  her  demeanour.  She  had  no  beauty ;  her 
features  were  unnoticcablc,  except  for  the  eyes, 
whicli  were  of  an  unusual  clear  hazel,  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  smile.  Ikr  hair  was  light  brown,  parted 
in  the  middle,  and  drawn  back  in  two  long  waves 
from  a  low  broad  forehead.  In  all  her  intercourse 
with  West  she  had  not  uttered  twenty  v^^ords  that 


MERCY  LANE 


iSi 


were  not  connected  with  her  work.  What  her 
opinions  were,  what  her  character  was  like,  what 
kind  of  personality  was  concealed  beneath  her  grave 
precise  manners — of  these  things  West  knew  noth- 
ing. She  entered  his  library  once  a  week  at  the 
same  hour,  made  lier  reports,  took  her  money,  and 
glided  out  again,  making  no  more  impression  on 
his  mind  than  a  soft  white  cloud  makes  in  its  pas- 
sage over  a  clear  and  empty  sky. 

She  stood  before  him  now,  and  as  she  opened  her 
notebook,  and  began  *o  make  her  usual  weekly  state- 
ment. West,  for  the  first  time,  found  himself  a  little 
curious  al)out  her.  Because  a  new  belief  had  come 
to  mean  so  nuich  to  him.  he  began  to  wonder  what 
the  Iwliefs  of  this  quiet  woman  might  l)e,  what  was 
her  history,  what  was  her  attitude  to  life.  He  lis- 
tened to  her  statement  with  mechanical  attention; 
she  had  put  up  her  notebodc  and  was  about  to  go, 
when  he  said,  "  Miss  Lane,  won't  you  sit  down  a 
moment,  and  tell  me  some  of  the  details  of  your 
work,  the  sort  of  things  you  don't  include  in  these 
admirable  reports  of  yours?" 

She  smiled  gravely.  "Of  course  I  will  if  you 
wish  it.  Dr.  West,  but  I  tlidn't  know  you  were  in- 
terested in  such  things  as  these." 

"  The  reproach  is  merited,"  he  answered. 

"  O,  I  did  not  mean  to  reproach  yon — that  was 
only  my  awkward  way  of  putting  it.  What  I  meant 


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i82     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

was  that  you  are  busy  always  with  the  affairs  of 
the  church  and  your  own  thoughts,  that  you 
couldn't  be  supposed  to  have  time  to  think  much 
about  such  work  as  mine.  It's  very  humble  work, 
and  much  the  same  week  after  week.  I  climb  so 
many  hundred  stairs,  enter  so  many  rooms,  try  to 
make  a  few  sick  people  comfortable,  sometimes 
wash  the  baby  for  a  poor  mother,  or  even  scrub  the 
floor,  and  give  a  little  money,  and  that  is  about  all." 

"  And  yet  you  keep  interested  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  said  simply.  "  Interest 
indeed  is  not  the  right  word;  I  should  use  a  stronger, 
and  say  fascinated." 

"Are  the  people  so  unusual,  then?" 

"  No,  not  unusual — ^there  are  too  many  of  them 
for  that.  But  they  are  so  brave,  so  patient.  They 
rarely  complain,  not  even  the  poorest  of  them.  And 
they  are  so  grateful  for  a  little  help.  They  are  not 
very  clean,  they  have  many  faults,  and  they  often 
fall  into  sad  sins,  and  yet  I  sometimes  think  they  are 
the  only  really  good  people  in  the  world." 

"  That's  saying  a  good  deal,  isn't  it?  "  said  West, 
•with  a  sympathetic  smile. 

"  I  suppose  it  does  sound  a  little  strange,  and 
perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  said  it.  What  I  mean 
is  that,  measured  by  the  meagreness  of  their  oppor- 
tunity, they  are  really  much  better  men  and  women 
than  those  who  have  much  larger  opportunities. 


MERCY  LANE 


«83 


They  have  not  much  religion,  it  is  true;  that  is,  the 
kind  of  religion  which  consists  in  thoughts  about 
religion;  but  the  few  things  they  do  believe  are  so 
real  to  them.  I  often  feel  that  I  get  much  more 
good  from  them  than  I  impart  to  them." 

She  flushed  with  the  sense  of  her  own  forward- 
ness of  speech.  It  was  against  all  her  habits  to  speak 
much  of  herself,  and  this  little  piece  of  self-revela- 
tion seemed  an  indiscretion.  She  lived  in  a  kind  of 
rich  silence  for  the  most  part,  quite  untroubled  by 
lack  of  communication  with  her  fellows.  But  there 
was  something  new  in  West's  manner  this  morn- 
ing that  had  drawn  her  out  of  her  usual  reticence. 

On  the  other  hand,  West  himself  was  newly  con- 
scious of  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  himself  and 
this  quiet  woman.  He  wondered  what  her  history 
had  been,  and  whether  he  might  dare  to  question 
her  about  it.  He  remembered  that  she  had  come 
somewhere  from  the  South,  of  course  with  excellent 
testimonials,  and  he  thought  he  had  heard  at  the 
time  of  her  introduction  to  him  that  she  came  of  a 
good  family.  If  this  were  so,  it  was  strange  that 
she  had  sought  and  made  no  friendships  in  the 
church.    How  had  she  come  to  take  up  this  work? 

"  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  but  I  would  really  like  to  know  hew  you  came 
to  be  interested  in  this  work.  You  need  not  answer 
me  unless  you  like." 


i84     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


"  I  would  rather  not  answer  except  in  general 
terms." 

"  Pray,  don't  answer  me  at  all  unless  you  feel 
yourself  absolutely  free  to  do  so." 

"  O,  but  I  wish  to  answer,"  she  replied,  with  em- 
phasis. "  Briefly  it  all  grew  out  of  an  experience. 
I  suppose  the  Methodists  would  say  I  '  found  re- 
ligion.' What  really  happened  was  this.  1  had 
never  lived  a  really  frivolous  life,  but  I  awoke  one 
f'ay  with  a  shock  to  find  that  the  things  that  had 
been  of  most  interest  to  me  were  all  empty.  Life 
seemed  to  me  without  substance,  mere  woven  air. 
Then  one  day,  at  the  Communion  service  in  the 
church  I  attended  I  heard  the  words  read  *  This  do, 
in  remembrance  of  Me';  and  I  instantly  saw  that 
the  only  right  way  of  living  was  to  do  the  things 
that  Jesus  did,  remembering  Him,  and  all  the  while 
conscious  that  He  was  near  you.  Some  things  I 
couldn't  do — that  was  clear.  I  was  not  wise,  for 
instance:  I  had  no  gift  of  speech;  I  could  never  in- 
struct others.  But  there  was  one  thing  I  could  do : 
I  could  go  about  doing  good,  and  that  seemed  to 
*me  the  greatest  thing  of  all.  So  I  took  the  near- 
est way  that  lay  open  to  me,  and  in  the  kind  of 
life  I  lead  I  have  found  ever  since  an  exquisite 
delight." 

"  Yet  you  live  amid  much  misery,  Miss  Lane." 
"  Ah,  but  amidst  much  love,  too;  yes,  and  much 


MERCY  LANE 


185 


heroism,  much  faith.  I  have  just  left  the  bedside  of 
a  poor  bedridden  girl — ^but  " 

She  suddenly  became  embarrassed,  as  if  she  had 
said  too  much. 

"But  what?"  said  West,  with  gentle  insistence. 

"  I  was  going  to  say  another  thing  I  ought  not  to 
say.  It  was  that  you  could  not  possibly  know  what 
this  love  and  faith  of  the  suffering  mean  unless  you 
see  it  for  yourself." 

"And  why  not  see  it?"  said  West.  "Why 
should  I  not  go  with  you,  and  see  for  myself?  " 

"  Will  you  really  do  so?  "  she  said,  with  evident 
^tleasure.  "  I  never  dared  to  ask  you." 

"  And  in  saying  that  you  reproach  me — and  de- 
servedly. I  ought  long  ago  to  have  seen  your  work 
for  myself.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  go  with 
you  at  once." 

"  O,  I  shall  be  so  glad,"  she  replied.  "  It  will 
mean  so  much  to  these  poor  people.  And  something 
to  me,  too,"  she  added,  "  to  know  that  there  is  a 
more  vital  bond  between  us  than  these  dry  reports." 
She  rose  as  she  spoke.  She  had  drawn  off  her  glove 
to  sign  the  receipt  for  her  money,  and  West's  eye 
was  suddenly  attracted  by  her  hand.  It  was  a  slen- 
der hand,  beautifully  modelled,  very  delicate  and 
strong;  but  it  was  sadly  disfigured.  The  skin  was 
reddened;  there  was  the  mark  of  what  seemed  a 
burn  on  the  right  finger,  and  the  joints  were  slightly 


i86     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

swollen.  West  withdrew  his  eyes  swiftly  with  the 
shamed  sense  of  having  surprised  a  secret.  "I 
sometimes  wash  the  baby  for  a  poor  mother,  or 
even  scrub  the  floor"— the  words  rang  upon  his 
ear.  There  came  to  his  memory  a  poem  he  had  once 
read  of  a  child  to  whom  a  dying  mother  had  con- 
fided the  care  of  four  younger  children:  and  how 
the  child's  hands  grew  calloused  with  her  toil  for 
them,  and  how  she  grew  prematurely  old,  "  as  on 
those  slender  shoulders  the  burdens  of  life  were 
rolled."  And  then  the  child  dies,  and  is  troubled 
because  she  has  never  been  to  church,  and  says  to 
her  child  friend, 

I've  been  so  tired  of  nights, 

I  couldn't  think  to  pray. 

And  now  when  I  see  the  Lord  jesus, 

Whatever  will  He  say? 

And  her  wise  friend  replies, 

I  wouldn't  say  a  word,  dear, 
For  snre  He  understands, 

•I  wouldn't  say  a  word  at  all. 
But,  Miry— just  show  Him  your  hands. 

'  And  then  in  the  same  sequence  of  thought,  he 
saw  his  mother  as  she  lay  dead,  and  remembered 
that  which  touched  him  .  lost  was  her  folded  hands 
— hands  always  busy  for  others,  which  he  had  never 
before  seen  in  repose- — and  how  upon  her  finger 
were  the  marks  made  by  the  long  toils  of  the  needle. 


MERCY  LANE 


187 


His  eyes  filled  wifh  hot  tears.  "  Show  Him  your 
hands" — ^Ah,  Mercy  Lane  might — but  dared  he? 
And  at  once  those  scars  upon  her  hands  became 
sacred  disfigurements,  and  iie  wondered  whether 
when  Christ  Himself  lifted  up  His  hands  to  bless 
the  people,  those  hands  also  did  not  show  where  the 
tools  of  the  carpenter's  shop  had  left  their  hurts  and 
wounds.  It  seemed  to  him  in  that  moment  that  he 
would  rather  have  scrubbed  a  floor  for  some  many- 
childed  weary  mother  than  have  preached  a  century 
of  sermons. 

He  went  with  Mercy  Lane  to  the  dim  and 
crowded  tenement  district  where  she  worked.  All 
the  way  he  was  thinking  of  those  scarred  hands. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  renew  the  conversation  with 
her,  except  to  ask  her  onct.  if  she  had  made  any 
friends  in  the  church. 

"  None,"  she  replied.  "  I  have  not  felt  the  need 
of  any." 

"  But  wouldn't  it  be  a  pleasure  for  you  to  know 
some  of  the  ladies  of  the  church?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  she  replied.  "  They  would  not 
understand  me,  and  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  not  be 
at  home  with  them.  Please  don't  think  I  speak 
proudly  or  cynically.  It  is  not  that;  it  is  simply  that 
I  knov/  that  they  and  I  live  by  irreconcilable  ideals." 

He  made  no  reply,  for  he  knew  how  true  the 
words  were.   But  he  saw,  with  the  same  emotional 


1 88     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


"ntensity  with  which  he  had  seen  other  things  that 
day,  how  irreconcilable  the  ideals  of  Mercy  Lane 
were  with  the  ideals  of  that  crowd  of  women  of 
whom  Mrs.  Lorimer  was  typical.  For  Mercy  Lane 
Christ  and  His  commands  were  real;  for  those  other 
women  a  mere  aesthetic  legend. 

He  stood  at  the  bedside  of  the  poor  girl  whom 
Mercy  Lane  had  wished  him  to  see.  She  was  a  frail, 
attenuated  creature;  she  had  been  three  years  in 
^ed,  slowly  dying.  An  old  mother,  whose  cheeks 
.11  bore  the  faded  bloom  of  country  breeding, 
waited  on  her  with  a  devotion  quite  unconscious  of 
itself.  What  struck  him  most  in  this  interview  was 
the  curiously  realistic  way  in  which  the  sick  girl 
spoke  of  Christ.  She  appeared  to  see  Him  all  the 
time,  as  some  one  quite  near  and  real.  There  was 
no  pretence  in  this  '  '  '  speech,  no  trace  of  the 
jargon  of  the  missi  It  appeared  to  be  the 

natural  expression  ot       r:,rmal  thought. 

"I  am  waiting  for  Kim  to  come  for  me,  and 
take  me  home,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother,  "  that's  what  she  is  al- 
ways saying.  She  never  complains — do  you, 
honey?" 

"  Why  should  I,  mother?  I  have  every  comfort, 
far,  far  more  than  I  deserve.  And  I  am  very 
happy." 

Mercy  Lane  looked  at  him  as  the  poor  girl  said 


MERCY  LANE 


189 


these  words,  and  he  read  the  message  of  her  glance. 
What  fortitude  was  here,  what  faith!  Here  also 
was  the  victory  of  the  child-like  mind,  drawing  the 
strength  of  all  its  heroism  from  the  vivid  sense  of 
a  real  Jesus,  with  her  through  all  her  hours  of  pain 
— waiting  to  bear  her  far  away  to  some  country  of 
repose  and  bliss,  when  her  soul  was  perfected 
through  suflfering.  Was  anything  in  his  own  late 
experience,  or  anything  in  the  story  of  Canora,  more 
wonderful  than  what  he  saw  here  ?  The  scene  was 
rommonplace  enough  in  all  its  human  details.  In 
J  \st  such  rooms  as  these,  and  under  just  sudi  cir- 
cumstances, myriads  of  human  creatures  had  suf- 
fered through  the  ages,  and  myriads  suffered  now. 
But  in  this  room  there  was  something  that  went  be- 
yond the  human,  that  rose  above  it,  that  cast  a  soft, 
transfiguring  light  upon  the  bare,  crude  details  of 
pain  and  poverty.  And  what  was  this  something 
but  the  presence  of  Christ  ?  What  other  thought 
had  ever  had  such  transfiguring  and  uplifting  power 
in  it  ?  He  knew  now  what  Mercy  Lane  meant  when 
she  said  that  she  received  more  good  from  the  poor 
than  she  imparted,  and  the  thought  came  to 
him  that,  had  Dr.  Littleton  dwelt  much  in  scenes 
like  these,  he  would  not  have  found  his  mind 
so  hostile  to  the  thought  of  a  second  coming  of 
Christ. 

And  this  thought  brought  another:  What  would 


190     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Mercy  Lane  have  to  say  to  these  things,  to  the  story 
of  Canora,  to  his  own  experiences? 

All  at  once  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  know  what 
her  thoughts  might  be.  The  pain  that  he  had  felt 
in  Littleton's  hostility,  the  significant  silence  of  the 
leaders  of  the  churches,  his  own  new  perception  of 
how  the  child-like  mind  stood  related  to  religious 
truth — all  these  things  made  him  eager  to  under- 
stand the  workings  of  such  a  soul  as  Mercy  Lane's. 
She  had  had  an  experience — so  she  said — ^which 
had  changed  her  life.  What  was  of  more  impor- 
tance, she  was  having  an  experience  every  day  which 
few  persons  had.  And  as  he  looked  at  that  quiet 
face,  as  he  remembered  those  di^gured  hands,  he 
instinctively  felt  that  she  possessed  some  deep 
spiritual  secret  which  had  been  hidden  from  him. 

As  they  went  down  the  dark  tenement  stairs  to- 
gether, he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  said, 
"  Miss  Lane,  if  you  knew  a  way  in  which  you  could 
help  me,  would  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would,"  she  replied.  "  But  I  can 
hardly  imagine  any  way  in  which  I  could  be  of  help 
'to  you." 

"  I  think  I  can  show  you  one,"  he  replied.  "  But 
first  let  me  explain.  I  want  you  to  think  of  me  as  a 
seeker  after  truth.  Something  has  happened  to  my 
life  which  has  knocked  out  the  very  pivot  of  all  my 
old  ways  of  thought." 


MERCY  LANE 


191 


"I  know/'  the  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  read 
about  it  in  the  paper." 

"  Then  you  Icnow  how  I  feel  I  have  to  build  up 
new  thoughts,  to  adjust  myself  to  a  new  range  of 

perception.    Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  known  in  my  own  life  what  this 


means 
(I 


Thank  you.  That  is  the  very  point  I  am  com- 
ing to.  You  told  me  an  hour  ago  that  there  was  a 
day  in  your  life  when  you  woke  to  find  life  empty, 
mere  woven  air.  But  you  did  not  tell  me  what  pro- 
duced that  impression.  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  this  also?  I  ask  because  I  think  you  can  hdp 
me  by  relating  it." 

At  these  words  her  face  flushed,  and  paled.  Its 
repose  was  gone;  life,  intense  and  vivid,  looked  out 
from  it. 

They  were  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  tene- 
ment. 

"  Won't  you  come  back  with  me  to  my  house 

said  West. 

"  No,"  she  said  decisively.   "  If  I  speak  at  aU 
must  speak  at  once.    It  means  breaking  ^ho 
of  an  old  wound — opening  it  up  again.    And  I 
not  a  brave  woman:  at  least  not  brave  enough  U 
endure  the  postponement  of  certain  pain." 

"  I  was  wrong,"  said  West,  "  to  ask  you.  I  did 
not  understand.   Forgive  me." 


I9i     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  No,  you  were  right.  If  I  did  not  feci  that,  be 
sure  nothing  you  could  say  would  make  me  speak." 
He  bowed  hi»  head,  and  said,  "  Go  on,  then." 
"  It  is,  alas  I  a  very  common  story  in  its  human 
details,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  bitte-  pathos.  "  I 
grew  up  in  a  wide  house  where  the  o  •  ^  thought  was 
pleasure;  without  discipline,  without  restraint  of 
any  kind,  and  with  no  better  instructors  than  my 
pride  and  my  passions.  When  I  was  cighii  er.  a  man 
came  into  my  life,  and  very  soon  he  became  the 
centre  of  my  life.  The  power  he  exercised  upon  me 
went  beyond  attraction:  it  was  fascination.  I  was 
warned  against  him,  but  I  naturally  put  down  all 
such  warnings  to  jealousy  or  spite.   Stranger  still, 
my  own  instincts  warned  me  against  him,  and  yet  I 
completely  disregarded  them.    There  is  a  kind  of 
man  who  has  that  power  over  women;  it  is  a  mag- 
netism which  is  physical  rather  than  mental,  against 
which  the  reason  is  powerless.  So  I  found  it,  for 
although  I  knew  that  he  was  vain,  shallow,  and  un- 
scrupulous, yet  at  the  glance  of  his  eyes,  at  the  touch 
of  his  hand,  I  became  his  willing  slave. 

"  This  went  on  for  a  long  time.  I  had  moments 
of  recovered  sanity  when  1  almost  hated  him  be- 
cause he  had  broken  down  the  defences  of  my  pride; 
yet  he  had  only  to  touch  niy  hand,  and  I  was  like  a 
dog  shivering  with  delight  at  a  casual  caress.  At 
last  things  came  to  a  crisis.  He  persuaded  me  that 


MERCY  LANE 


193 


since  my  friends  disliked  him,  it  was  hopeless  to 

suppose  they  would  consent  to  a  marriage.  The 
only  way  was  for  us  to  elope,  and  to  be  married 
secretly.  Such  a  proposal  should  have  at  once 
revealed  to  me  the  baseness  of  the  man's  character. 
But  I  had  now  re-'  d  a  condition  when  such  a 
revelation  had  no  :  ...  for  me.  I  had  nothing  to 
sustain  me  but  my  <  :je;  that  I  bad  surrendered,  and 
the  weakest  of  all  women  is  the  woman  whose  only 
defence  is  her  pride;  it  always  fails  her  if  the  press- 
ure of  circumstance  is  great  enough,  and  then  she 
is  helpless.  You  can  foresee  the  sequel.  I  was  very 
young,  my  mother  was  dead,  my  father  had  never 
sought  my  confidence;  W3t  a  single  human  being 
had  the  least  influence  over  me.   I  consented. 

"The  night  came  which  he  had  fixed  for  our 
ebpement.  It  was  a  very  dark  night,  still  and 
\  n.  We  h?d  company  that  night,  and  as  I  put 
n  J  things  together  in  my  bedroom  I  could  hear 
shouts  of  laughter  below,  the  click  of  billiard  balls, 
loud  talk  about  a  recent  horse  race.  Every  one  was 
too  much  absorbed  in  the  pleasure  of  the  hour  to 
have  missed  me.  I  went  downstairs  softly,  stepped 
out  upon  the  piazza,  and  in  a  moment  the  darkness 
had  swallowed  me  up.  I  felt  no  compunction,  and 
certainly  no  religious  scruple.  My  fc  Aish  heart 
was  too  busy  picturing  the  delights  that  awaited 
me,  and  the  triumphant  return  in  a  few  days,  when 


194     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

of  course  all  would  be  forgiven,  and  my  bold  choice 
would  be  approved. 

"  It  was  a  mile's  walk  to  the  depot;  it  was  there 
we  were  to  meet.  I  went,  with  feet  winged  by  de- 
sire, the  blood  singing  in  my  veins  for  joy.  And 

then          I  had  just  reached  the  depot.    I  stood 

almost  at  its  door,  when  I  saw  distinctly  some  one 
standing  there,  waving  an  arm  toward  me,  and  a 
voice  said,  '  Go  back,  my  child,  go  back.'  It  was 
no  one  I  knew;  I  was  sure  of  that.  Nevertheless  I 
was  conscious  of  some  tremendous  authority  in  that 
tall  figure  with  the  outstretched  arm  and  the  com- 
mandinj;  voice.  I  was  seized  with  terror.  I  flew 
back  to  the  house  unseen  and  entered,  and  fell  sob- 
bing beside  my  bed.  It  was  not  until  the  summer 
dawn  broke  that  I  was  able  to  think  connectedly. 
When  I  did  so  I  felt  sure  that  I  had  been  the  subject 
of  some  miraculous  interposition.  A  few  days 
afterwards,  the  news  came  that  this  man,  to  whom 
I  was  about  to  confide  my  destiny  on  that  awful 
night,  was  a  married  man,  and  a  criminal.  O,  my 
God,  what  horror  overcame  me  in  that  hour!  But 
•  stronger  even  than  horror  was  the  sense  of  divine 
interposition.  God  Himself  had  stooped  to  rescue 
me  that  night.  I  was  sure  of  it.  He  Who  had  said 
'  Go  back,'  was  none  other  than  the  Son  of  God. 

"  It  was  then  that  life  became  empty — ^mere 
woven  air.  I  was  sick  with  shame.  The  thing  men 


MERCY  LANE 


195 


called  passion  was  altogether  hateful  to  me.  The 
world  of  pleasure  in  which  I  had  lived  seemed  hor- 
rible. My  sole  thought  was  to  find  out  who  it  was 
that  spoke  to  me  that  night,  and  to  be  guided  by  him. 

"The  rest  followed  as  I  have  told  you.  The 
revelation,  for  so  I  held  it,  of  a  real  God  who  cared 
for  me :  of  a  Christ  still  in  the  world,  like  a  Good 
Shepherd,  shepherding  His  wandering  sheep, 
changed  all  my  life.  Henceforth  I  knew  that  He 
alone  had  the  right  to  claim  my  life.  It  had  be- 
come His  when  He  plucked  it  that  night  from  the 
pit  of  shame  into  which  I  would  have  plunged  it." 

West  had  listened  breathlessly  to  tl.is  confession. 
\\  hen  it  ceased  he  could  only  murmur  a  low 
"  Thank  you." 

"  I  would  not  have  told  you  this,  but  that  you  said 
I  could  help  you,"  said  Mercy. 

"  You  have  helped  me,"  he  replied.  "  You  have 
made  me  see  how  right  it  is  to  think  of  Christ  as  you 
think;  how  like  Christ  it  would  be  to  act  as  you 
believe  and  know  He  did.  For  you,  at  least,  this 
new  manifestation  of  Christ  of  which  the  world  is 
talking — the  second  coming  as  men  call  it — is  not 
incredible." 

"  I  don't  need  to  be  convinced  of  a  second  com- 
ing," she  said,  with  a  return  to  her  old  manner  of 
tranquil  gravity.  "  For  me  Christ  has  come.  He 
has  never  been  away." 


XI 


THE  CONFESSION 

WEST  parted  with  Mercy  Lane  at  the  door 
of  the  tenement  house,  and  took  his  way 
to  the  church. 
His  thou^nts  were  quite  clear  now,  and  he  real- 
ised that  they  were  unalterable.  He  had  passed  a 
certain  dividing  line,  a  watershed;  henceforth  the 
stream  of  his  life  flowed  toward  the  land  of  pure 
faith. 

Hitherto  he  had  been  seeking  some  rational  con- 
firmation of  the  new  ideas  that  had  possessed  him. 
He  had  really  been  trying  to  argue  himself  into 
faith.  He  saw  how  not  only  that  his  attempt  was 
futile,  but  that  it  was  absurd.  A  man's  life  must 
be  governed  either  by  pure  reason  or  pure  intuition; 
they  could  not  be  combined,  for  they  were  inher- 
*  ently  incompatible.  The  one  produced  a  Dr.  Little- 
ton ;  the  other  a  Mercy  Lane.  They  stood  at  oppo- 
site poles,  and  nothing  could  unite  them. 

Christianity  itself  was  a  sort  of  sublime  irra- 
tionality. It  centred  itself  in  a  God-man,  utterly 
inconceivable  to  reason;  on  a  series  of  astotuiding 

196 


THE  CONFESSION  i97 


acts,  utterly  irreconcilable  with  science;  on  the  pres- 
ence in  human  life  of  certain  elements,  which  were 
in  utter  contradiction  to  the  facts  of  life  as  sociol- 
ogy observed  them.  It  did  not  appeal  to  the  reason; 

it  afifronted  it.  Hence,  as  long  as  a  man  shut  him- 
self behind  the  barriers  of  reason  Christianity  was 
a  thing  invisible  to  him.  He  had  to  be  born  again 
into  a  new  childhood  before  he  could  as  much  as  see 
the  Kingdom  of  God. 

For  his  part,  he  knew  that  his  choice  was  now 
made.  He  had  left  the  company  of  the  intellectuals; 
he  had  joined  the  company  of  the  simple-hearted. 
That  Christ  should  appear  to  a  company  of  devout 
peasants  at  Canora;  that  the  Stranger  who  had 
spoken  to  him  in  the  darkened  church  should  be 
really  Christ  Himself — these  things  were  no  longer 
unintelligible.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  just  the 
things  that  might  be  expected  to  happen  in  a  world 
permeated  by  the  divine  presence.  The  truly  unin- 
telligible thing  was  that  people  who  affected  to  be- 
lieve all  the  sublime  irrationalities  of  Christianity 
should  be  constantly  engaged  in  vain  endeavours  to 
reconcile  them  with  reason;  and  that  they  should 
be  astonished  and  sceptical  when  things  happened 
which  justified  the  claims  of  Christianity  in  spite  of 
reason. 

He  realised  also  that  he  had  now  found  the  only 
true  dynamic  capable  of  transforming  the  Church. 


198     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

It  was  useless  to  say  "Would  Jesus  do  this?"  or 
"  You  must  not  do  this  because  Jesus  would  not 
have  done  it "  to  people  who  never  thought  of  Jesus 
as  a  living  Presence.  Had  not  Mrs.  Lorimer  at 
once  mocked  at  this  appeal  ?  And  he  now  saw  why ; 
it  was  at  best  but  an  appeal  to  sentiment,  am'  in 
sentiment  she  was  deficient.  So  were  most  people. 
The  corroding  force  of  worldliness,  the  hardenin- 
power  of  custom,  soon  rendered  sentiment  inoper- 
ative, even  in  deeper  natures  than  Mrs.  Lorimer's. 
The  example  of  a  dead  and  vanished  Jesus  had  no 
more  power  to  shape  human  conduct  than  the  ex- 
ample of  a  dead  and  vanished  parent;  and  did  not 
every  one  know  how  rapidly  death  effaced  the  rules 
of  life  imposed  by  parents?  Men  respected  the 
memory  of  the  dead,  but  it  was  very  rare  to  find 
men  governed  by  the  wishes  of  the  dead,  however 
well-beloved  they  were. 

But  if  you  could  say  to  a  Mrs.  Lorimer,  if  you 
could  say  to  the  people  of  a  church,  "  Jesus  is  here : 
He  has  never  gone  away :  He  commands  your  obedi- 
ence ";  and  if  you  could  make  them  realise  the  truth 
of  what  you  said,  then  you  had  the  dynamic  of  all 
reform.  No  one  would  dare  to  do  in  the  presence 
of  Christ  things  which  he  would  allow  himself  to 
do  under  the  shadow  of  the  memory  of  Christ.  It 
was  simply  because  the  Church  had  believed  its 
Master  gone  upon  a  long  journey,  from  which  re- 


THE  CONFESSION  i99 


turn  was  uncertain,  that  it  had  given  itself  over  to 
rreed  and  folly.  When  it  knew  that  the  Master 
stood  before  the  door,  would  it  not  at  once  set  its 
house  in  order? 

This  dynamic — ^the  only  dynamic  of  a  true  re- 
form— West  now  possessed.  And  he  was  deter- 
mined to  apply  it  at  once.  He  knew  now  in  what 
words  lie  wr  .d  address  his  church.  He  had 
hitherto  dreaded  this  hour;  he  was  now  eager  for  it. 

As  he  drew  near  the  church  he  was  startled  to 
find  the  street  crowded.  It  was  vvident  that  the 
church  was  lull,  and  that  this  crowd  was  composed 
of  people  unable  to  obtain  admittance. 

He  should,  of  course,  have  been  prepared  for 
some  such  scene  as  this.  But  for  days  he  had  been 
so  ubsorbed  i.:  the  crisis  of  his  own  life  that  he  had 
p3.id  little  attention  to  public  events.  He  had  not 
rr.easured  the  effect  upon  the  general  mind  of  Stock- 
mar's  statements,  and  his  own  modesty  had  pre- 
vented him  from  understanding  the  position  which 
he  himself  occupied  in  public  attention.  He  had  ex- 
pected a  large  congregation,  but  this  multitude  took 
his  breath  away. 

Even  in  the  few  mi  -nts  while  he  watched  the 
scene,  the  crowd  grew  rapidly.  It  became  an  im- 
mense concourse,  and  still  the  people  came.  And  it 
was  unlike  any  crowd  that  he  had  ever  seen.  It 
was  so  strangely  silent,  and  as  the  white  electric  light 


20O     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

fell  upon  it,  he  saw  a  sea  of  faces,  al!  touchp't  with 
an  air  of  waiting  stillness,  all  pale,  intense,  expect- 
ant. "  God  help  me,"  he  thought,  "  what  can  I  say 
to  *hese?"  But  overmastering  all  bis  sense  of 
shrinking  was  the  triumphant  sense  that  New  York 
was  actually  awakening  at  last  to  the  call  of  re- 
ligious truth,  and  that  he  had  a  real  message  for  the 
great  perplexed  city. 

He  turned  to  the  side-door  of  the  church,  un- 
locked it,  and  entered  his  study. 

Sturgess  met  him  at  the  door. 

"The  church  has  been  full  for  the  last  hour, 
sir,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  trembling  voice.  "  O, 
sir,  I  thank  God  that  I  have  lived  to  see  this 
day!" 

In  the  room  adjoining  his  study  his  deacons  and 
managers  were  gathered.  As  he  entered  the  room 
they  rose,  but  for  some  moments  no  one  said  a 
woi-d.  They  seemed  to  shrink  from  him.  Between 
him  and  them  some  strange  atmosphere  interposed. 
They  gazed  upon  him  doubtfully. 
.  At  last  one  of  them  spoke,  his  senior  deacon, 
an  old  man  with  a  firm,  hard  mouth,  eyes  of  steel, 
and  a  quick,  nervous  manner. 

"  We  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said.  "  We 
should  like  to  consult  with  you  on  this  most  tinusual 
occasion." 

"  What  is  it  you  want  to  say?  "  he  asked. 


THE  CONFESSION  aoi 

"  We  want  to  know  what  you  intend  to  say,"  he 
replied.  "  There  is  a  great  deal  of  excitement 
among  the  people.  In  fact,  this  is  a  most  critical 
occasion.  We  none  of  us  approve  this— this  sen- 
sational situation.  It  will  need  careful  handling, 
sir,  very  careful  handling." 

"  Yes,"  interposed  another  deacon,  *'  we're  not 
accustomed  to  this  sort  of  crowd.  They're  noc  our 
own  people,  you  k  u  ..  In  fact,  quite  a  number  of 
them  are  quite  low  persons." 

*'  I  should  have  thought  you  would  be  glad  to 
find  the  church  so  crowded  in  any  case— with  any 
kind  of  persons,"  he  replied,  with  quiet  irony. 

"But  they're  not  our  own  people,  sir.  And 
they  are  in  a  very  excited  state.  There's  been  a 
door  broken  as  they  rushed  in.  And  so  we  thought 
that  the  best  way  would  be  for  you  to  just  say  a 
few  quiet  words  to  them,  and  let  hem  go  as  soon  as 
you  can,  before  any  mischief's  done." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  senior  deacon,  "  that's  what  we 
all  think.  It's  a  situation  that  demands  careful 
handling,  ve'7  careful  handling." 

"  I  don't  think  there  will  be  any  mischief  done," 
West  replied.  "As  for  what  I  propose  to  say 
to  the  people,  you  must  allow  me  to  be  the  best 
judge  '  f  that." 

"  Of  course,  sir — ip  the  ordinary  way  that's  right 
enough,"  said  tiie  senior  deacon.   "  But  this  is  an 


2oa     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

extraordinary  occasion.  And  there  are  strange 
stories  about,  and  we  are  afraid  of  what  you  may 
say.  That's  the  plain  truth.  And  so  we  concluded 
that  we  ought  to  advise  with  you  before  you 
spoke." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  .nought  fulness  for  me," 
said  West.  "I  am  sure  it  is  kindly  meant.  But 
I  repeat  that  I  must  be  the  sole  judge  of  what  I 
shall  say  to  this  congregation.  No  doubt  I  shall  be 
divinely  guided." 

They  were  silent,  but  they  gazed  upon  him  more 
doubtfully  than  ever.  West  returned  their  glance 
with  a  long,  wistful  look.  They  were  good  men; 
he  had  worked  with  them  in  perfect  harmony  for 
years;  but  he  could  not  disguise  the  knowledge  that 
they  were  either  already  estranged  from  him,  or 
on  the  brink  of  estrangement.  While  he  was  quiv- 
ering with  a  spiritual  ecstasy  so  keen  that  it  con- 
sumed him,  they  were  concerned  with  such  trivial 
matters  as  a  broken  door;  while  he  saw  New  York 
roused  from  lethargy  and  eager  for  religious  truth, 
they  were  dismayed  because  a  strange  crowd  had 
invaded  the  church,  among  whom  were  many  "  low 
persons." 

But  this  was  no  time  for  argument.  His  hour 
had  come.  He  turned  from  them  with  a  silent 
prayer  that  they  also  might  see  the  light  he  saw, 
passed  through  the  door  that  led  to  the  pulpit, 


THE  CONFESSION  903 

and  in  another  moment  stood  before  tHe  vast 
congregation. 
His  first  sensation  was  one  of  pure  dismay.  Not 

only  were  the  seats  all  crowded,  but  the  throng 
filled  aisles  and  vestibules,  and  the  little  double 
gallery  in  the  end  of  the  church,  never  used  in  the 
memory  of  man,  was  also  thronged.  And  there 
was  none  of  that  hum  and  stir  of  curiosity  and  ex- 
pectation which  was  usual  in  a  crowd  of  this  dimen- 
sion. That  air  of  waiting  stillness  which  he  had 
observed  in  the  multitude  upon  the  street  was  much 
more  marked  here.  It  was  like  the  tense  electric 
stillness  in  a  forest  just  before  the  thunder  peals. 

He  signalled  to  the  organist,  and  at  the  first 
chord  of  Coronation  all  the  '  ast  crowd  moved, 
rose,  and  sang  the  familiar  words,  "  All  Hail  the 
Power  of  Jesus'  Name."  As  the  volume  of  sound 
rose  triumphant,  his  confidence  returned  to  him.  He 
was  sure  now  of  himself,  of  his  message.  Upon 
that  great  surge  of  harmony  he  seemed  to  be  up- 
borne. It  was  as  though  he  walked  upon  the  sea, 
and  heard  amid  the  wash  of  waves  the  calm  voice 
that  said  to  him,  "  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid." 

From  that  instant  he  spoke  and  acted  as  a  man 
who  is  the  instrument  or  vehicle  of  some  Power 
greater  than  himself.  He  opened  the  Bible,  and 
read  passage  after  passage  in  which  Christ  spoke 
of  the  certainty  of  His  return  to  earth.  He 


ao4     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

concluded  with  the  P'.rable  of  the  Ten  Virgins. 
"  Watch,  therefore,  for  ye  know  ujt  the  day  nor 
the  hour  when  the  Son  of  Man  cometh."  The 
words  seemed  to  traverse  that  tense  atmosphere  like 
a  bolt  of  flame.  There  was  a  long,  sighing  response 
from  the  congregation.  He  lifted  his  hand  for 
prayer.  For  some  moments  no  words  were  given 
him.  When  at  last  he  spoke,  it  was  but  a  single 
sentence : 

"Even  so,  come  Lord  Jesus,  come." 

And  again  from  that  great  congregation  rose 
that  long,  responsive  sigh,  like  the  murmur  of  in- 
numerable leaves  when  the  wind  walks  across  a 

forest. 

Then  he  began  to  speak.  He  alluded  briefly  to 
Stockmar's  sudden  illumination,  to  the  Canora 
story,  to  the  wave  of  religious  feeling  which  had 
begun  to  overspread  the  world.  Why  were  these 
things  incredible?  They  were  incredible  only  to 
those  who  had  forgotten  the  sacred  promise,  "  The 
Son  of  Man  cometh,"  But  Christ  Himself  had 
foreseen  that  His  words  would  be  forgotten.  As 
it  was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so  it  would  be  through 
all  the  ages;  men  would  eat  and  drink,  and  buy 
and  sell,  and  marry  and  give  in  marriage,  and 
leave  unregarded  and  unread  the  signs  that  shone 
in  the  sky.  Nay  more,  they  would  quote  His  words 
with  reverence,  and  recite  in  universal  creeds,  "  I 


THE  CONFESSION  ao$ 

believe  that  He  shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and 
the  dead/'  but  without  attaching  to  the  words  any 
positive  or  real  meaning.   He  himself  had  done  so. 

He  spoke  as  one  who  had  wilfully  forgotten  through 
many  years  the  words  of  Christ,  or  had  treated  His 
solemn  promises  as  the  rhetoric  of  a  wild  idealism. 

West  spoke  very  .slowly,  in  a  low  voice,  broken 
by  emotion,  as  he  made  this  confession.  Then  he 
gathered  himself  together,  as  though  shaking  all 
the  burden  of  past  errors  from  his  shoulders,  and 
cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Nevertheless  the  hour  was 
always  fixed  when  He  would  come.  Time  and  the 
world  ht./e  waited  for  it.  It  was  as  certain  as 
the  conjunction  of  the  stars,  which  traverse  millions 
of  miles  of  space  quite  unobserved,  but  reach  their 
point  at  last.  That  point  at  which  eternity  once 
more  breaks  through  upon  the  world  is  now 
reached.  The  long  waiting  of  the  universe  is  over 
—to  us  centuries,  to  God  but  a  moment.  The  hour 
has  struck.    Christ  has  come." 

He  stood  erect  as  he  uttered  these  words,  his 
face  uplifted  and  illumined,  his  hand  outstretched. 
This  was  no  longer  the  Francis  West  known  to  the 
eclectic  congregation  of  the  Church  of  the  Re- 
demption; it  was  a  u;w  man  who  spoke,  a  prophet, 
the  seer  of  a  new  day.  As  he  spoke  he  felt  as 
though  a  novel  force  arose  in  him,  and  streamed 
from  him,  in  a  flame  of  words.  He  trembled,  but 


206     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

it  was  not  with  fear;  it  was  with  the  shock  of  that 
consuming  rapture.  And  this  streaming  force  that 
went  forth  from  him  enveloped  the  congregation 
in  an  instant.  Sobs  were  heard,  stifled  cries  arose. 
Many  had  unconsciously  risen  from  their  seats  and 
stood  gazing  on  him.  Others  were  looking  upward, 
with  pale  faces,  as  though  they  saw  something  in 
the  dim  roof  of  the  church.  He  hftecl  his  hand  for 
silence,  and  again  began  to  speak,  in  tlie  same  low 
tones  he  had  at  ''"St  employed. 

"  1  am  a  great  sinner,"  he  said,  "  for  it  was  given 
to  me  as  a  priest  of  religion  to  believe  these  things, 
and  to  teach  them,  but  I  did  neither.   I  preferred 
to  forget  them,  because  it  would  have  interfered 
with  my  mode  of  life  had  I  remembered  them.  He 
who  holds  a  thing  as  true,  but  lives  as  though 
it  were  untrue,  soon  finds  the  truth  turned  into 
lies  to  him.    So  all  these  solemn  words  of  the 
Master,  whom  I  professed  to  serve,  became  lies  to 
me.   It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  say,  but  it  is  so.  If 
I  did  not  teach  them,  if  I  avoided  those  passages 
of -Scripture  in  which  they  we-e  distinctly  stated, 
it  was  because  ihey  had  become  lies  to  me  through 
my  mode  of  life.    If  the  Church  does  not  believe 
them,  it  is  for  just  the  same  cause;  her  mode  of 
life  contradicts  them.    For  what  kind  of  Church 
would  that  be  in  which  these  words  were  heartily 
believed?  It  would  certainly  be  unlike  any  Church 


THE  CONFESSION 


that  you  or  I  could  find  in  this  City  of  New  York 
to-night.  It  would  spenf'  its  whole  time  in  prayer, 
and  good  works;  it  would  seek  out  the  poor  ami 
the  needy,  rcnicniberiiig  Who  it  was  that  said,  *  In- 
asmuch as  ye  do  it  unto  the  least  of  these,  My 
brethren,  ye  do  it  unto  Me.'  It  would  not  hoard 
wealth,  but  would  dispense  it;  it  would  not  spend  its 
care  and  gold  on  costly  temples  for  its  "  <rratifi- 
cation,  but  in  buying  knowledge  fo*-  ''  ^tiorant, 
comfort  for  the  helpless,  thus  rans  .ig  the  soul 
of  the  people  from  destruction.  Yea  it  would  do 
these  things,  because  it  could  not  help  doing  them. 
But  the  Church  has  not  willed  to  do  these  things. 
It  has  clothed  itself  in  purple  raiment,  and  feasted 
sumptuously  like  Dives,  because,  like  Dives,  it  has 
had  no  vision  of  that  which  lay  behind  the  veil. 
/  nd  then,  because  men  must  needs  justify  their  con- 
dur.  to  themselves  in  some  way,  however  false, 
the  Church  has  said,  'O,  but  Jesus  never  meant 
these  strange  words  about  His  second  coming. 
Therefore  they  are  not  binding  on  us,  and  we  may 
safely  disregard  them.'  So  Dives  thought,  until 
that  hour  when  the  veil  was  rent  in  twain,  and  then 
he  knew  differently.  He  knew  too  late:  God  be 
thanked  we  know  in  time.  For  us  the  veil  is  slowly 
lifted,  and  He  comes  with  gentle  stens,  that  we  may 
return  to  our  first  works  before  '  ^  a;  . ».  vyhelmed 
with  the  brightness  of  His  app  iriug    lic  iiijocks 


208     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

upon  the  door  in  warning.  One  and  another  has 
heard  that  knocking.  O,  listen,  sinful  people,  and 
awake,  before  heaven  and  earth  are  shaken,  and 
the  door  swings  back  which  none  can  close 
again." 

Once  more  there  rose  from  the  dense  mass  of 
thrilled,  attentive  people  that  long,  responsive  sigh. 
In  the  deep  silence  that  ensued  West  found  him- 
self trying  to  read  the  thoughts  that  stirred  in 
this  multitude  of  minds.  Was  that  sigh  simply 
the  expression  of  relief  under  an  intolerable  tension, 
the  cry  of  the  nerves,  strained  to  breaking-point? 
Was  it  belief?  Was  it  alarm?  He  could  not  tell; 
but  he  was  instantly  aware  that  in  that  crowd  of 
faces,  there  were  some  that  were  passionless  and 
cold,  and  that  these  were  the  faces  of  his  own 
people.  There  was  one  exception — ^it  was  Payson 
Hume.  The  big  florid  man  sat  motionless,  his 
colour  gone,  his  eyes  staring.  That  spectacle  re- 
called West  to  his  first  resolve,  to  confess  his  faith 
rather  than  argue  for  it.  He  owed  it  to  Payson 
Hume,  he  owed  it  to  these  men  and  women  who  had 
trusted  him  for  years,  to  say  exactly  what  had 
happened  to  himself.  And  yet  how  difficult  the 
task!  How  much  less  difficult  to  make  general 
statements  of  belief!  and  might  not  this  be  a!l  that 
was  required  of  him?  Instantly  he  knew  that  it 
was  not  all.    Stockmar  had  made  his  confession; 


THE  CONFESSION 


ao9 


Mercy  Lane  had  that  day  made  hers;  he  must  make 
his  without  reserve.  This  was  his  true  cross;  he 
must  take  it  up.  This  inner  debate  was  a  matter 
of  a  few  seconds — so  swiftly  may  the  soul  choose 
the  road  of  ultimate  destinies. 

He  began  to  speak  again,  this  time  with  a  kind 
of  breathless  eagerness,  as  if  anxious  to  be  done. 
He  narrated  his  emotions  on  that  memorable  Sun- 
day, when  the  pictured  Christ  arrested  his  atten- 
tion, and  the  stranger  in  the  church  put  his  searching 
questions  to  him. 

"  There  may  seem  little  in  these  incidents  to  you," 
he  said.  "  There  must  have  seemed  little  in  the 
incidents  on  the  Damascus  road  to  the  companions 
of  St.  Paul.  But  they  were  not  meant  for  them; 
they  were  meant  for  Paul  alone.  There  was  in 
him  that  which  interpreted  them,  and  therefore  he 
had  the  vision  which  no  one  else  could  have.  They 
were  not  the  less  real  for  that;  they  were  so  real 
that  his  entire  future  life  was  based  on  their  reality, 
and  he  was  able  to  convince  a  large  portion  of  the 
world  of  that  reality. 

"  Let  me  bear  my  witness,  then.  I  am  a  vital 
sceptic,  by  which  I  mean  a  questioner,  a  doubter. 
I  am  not  by  temperament  emotional,  and  it  has 
always  been  my  aim  to  discourage  in  myself  and 
others  the  alertness  of  undisciplined  emotions.  But 
from  the  instant  Rudolf  Stockmar  said  that  he 


210     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

had  seen  Jesus  on  that  Saturday  afteraoon,  I  found 
my  scepticism  crumbling.  I  had  not  even  the  wish 
to  save  it.  It  was  as  if  some  potent  chemic  ele- 
ment had  touched  it;  it  dissolved  of  itself. 

"  Stockmar's  story  was  real  to  me.  When  the 
sad  eyes  of  the  Christ  in  the  picture  gazed  into 
mine  of  the  next  afternoon,  they  also  seemed 
real.  That  was  the  second  stage  in  my  illumi- 
nation. 

"Then  came  the  third  and  last.    I  know  now 

Who  the  Man  was  Who  spoke  to  me  in  the  church. 
Who  else  but  He  would  have  said,  '  Francis  West, 
if  He  came  as  I  come,  wouldst  thou  receive  Him? ' 
When  He  first  addresed  me  I  thought  Him  but  an 
ordinary  workingman.  When  He  addressed  Mary 
in  the  garden,  she  also  thought  He  was  the  gar- 
dener. But  for  me,  as  for  her,  the  Divine  Soul 
shone  through  the  earthly  garb.  I  felt  the  throb 
of  that  Soul  upon  mine.  Workingman  as  He  ap- 
peared, yet  to  Him  I  bowed  my  head.  And  so  I 
now  make  my  confession.  I  have  seen  the  Lord. 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  yet  He  has  come  to  me, 
even  me ! " 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  the  desk  in  uncontrol- 
lable emotion.  The  church  was  in  confusion.  The 
senior  deacon,  with  a  pallid  face,  came  up  the  pulpit 
stair,  whispered  something  to  West,  and  took  his 
arm  as  if  to  lead  him  away.  But  West  shook  his 


THE  CONFESSION  an 


head,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  once  more  faced  the 
excited  crowd. 

And  then  a  strange  thing  happened.  In  the  little 
upper  gallery  at  the  end  of  the  church  a  woman 
rose.  He  recognised  her  at  once;  she  was  the  con- 
tralto singer  in  the  church  quartette.  She  had  al- 
ways been  very  different  from  the  other  members 
of  the  quartette;  she  alone  sang  with  real  feeling, 
because  she  alone  had  spiritual  emotion;  and  she 
was  without  pride  and  simple  as  a  child.  She  stood 
quiet  for  a  moment,  her  hands  clasped  before  her, 
and  then  began  to  sing.  The  pure  deep  voice,  com- 
ing from  that  great  height,  fell  upon  the  crowd  like 
a  veritable  voice  from  heaven.  By  some  exquisite 
instinct,  as  much  spiritual  as  artistic,  she  selected 
an  old  hymn,  set  to  one  of  those  majestic  tunes 
of  an  earlier  age — "Helmsley."  Many  must  have 
hv  :i»d  it  in  childhood,  some  few  perhaps  knew  its 
history — ^and  for  those  who  did  there  was  a  rapid 
vision  of  vast  concourses  of  people  ranged  on  Lon- 
don commons  or  Cornish  hillsides,  singing  this 
very  hymn  to  this  very  tune,  as  the  voice  of  White- 
field  or  of  Wesley  ceased  to  thrill  their  hearts: 

Lo,  He  comes  with  clouds  descending. 

Once  for  favoured  sinners  slain, 
Thousand  thousand  saints  attending 

Swell  the  triumph  of  His  train. 
Hallelujah, 

God  appears  on  earth  to  reign. 


212     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Yea,  Amen !  let  all  adore  Thee, 

High  on  Thy  eternal  throne: 
Saviour,  take  the  power  and  glory, 

Claim  the  kingdom  for  Thine  own. 
Hallelujah! 

Come,  Lord  Jesus,  quickly  come. 

Ah,  the  ecstasy  of  that  repeated  cry,  Hallelujah ! 
It  was  surely  a  challenge  to  belief,  the  cry  of  the 
trumpet  to  the  faithful.  After  the  first  verse  the 
melody  was  caught  up  by  the  entire  congregation. 
They  rose  as  by  a  common  instinct.  And  as  the 
last  note  ceased  in  the  church,  it  was  taken  up  by 
the  crowd  outside. 

"  Lo,  He  comes  with  clouds  descending" — down 
the  lighted  streets  swept  the  great  multitude;  they, 
and  their  song  of  faith.  To  many,  hearing  that 
strange  song  that  night,  it  seemed  as  if  the  voice 
of  Heaven  itself  had  once  more  spoken  to  the 
ears  of  men. 


XII 


THE  VOICE 


NOTHER  day  rose  upon  New  York.  Over- 


head was  a  sky  of  hard  pure  brilliance,  that 


-^typical  American  sky,  which  knows  black 
tempest  and  positive  light,  but  is  destitute  of  soft- 
ness. In  the  tender  skies  of  other  lands,  perpetually 
in  motion  with  the  passage  of  clouds,  changeful, 
varied  from  hour  to  hour,  even  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment, skies  that  have  shadows  as  well  as  light,  and 
slow  daybreaks,  and  long  lingering  twilights,  some 
element  of  mystery  exists  which  the  dullest  soul  may 
feel  at  times.  But  there  is  no  mystery  in  this  typi- 
cal American  sky.  Its  purity  and  hardness  are 
those  of  a  precious  stone.  It  is  a  dome  of  glass, 
glittering  and  vast;  which  does  not  call  the  soul 
away  in  dreams,  but  rather  shuts  down  on  human 
life  with  a  material  pressure — a  fit  sky  for  a  race 
of  men  who  find  their  chief  pleasure  in  material 
things. 

Another  day  rose  upon  New  York,  and  that  hard 
and  brillian'  sky  seemed  to  mock  the  vague  terrors 
of  the  ended  night.  Christ  in  New  York — ^the  very 


a  14     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

thought  was  unintelligible.  Beside  the  sleeping 
waters  of  a  lake  shut  in  by  lonely  hills,  upon  a 
mountain  path  that  touched  the  clouds,  on  Galilee 
or  Hermon,  or  in  the  olive-gardens  of  Mount  Olivet 
— ^there  He  could  be  imagined,  there  the  brooding 
eye  might  catch  the  faint  gleam  of  His  raiment  as 
He  passed — but  here,  among  these  streets  of  stone, 
in  the  shadow  of  these  Babel  towers,  the  thought 
seemed  not  possible.  And  so  New  York  awoke, 
and  the  wheels  of  life  revolved  again  with  loud 
insolent  insistence,  and  men  forgot  the  awful 
dreams  that  had  visited  a  thousand  eyelids  in  the 
night.  And  yet  not  altogether. 

Not  altogether,  for  forces  had  been  set  in  mo- 
tion which  could  not  be  ignored.  Payson  Hume  sat 
that  morning  in  his  office,  unable  to  bend  his  mind 
to  the  business  of  the  day.  There  were  transfers 
of  stock  to  be  signed,  checks  to  be  endorsed,  clients 
to  be  interviewed.  The  telephone  rang,  the  click 
of  the  tape  machine,  recording  the  progress  of 
the  market,  uttered  its  sharp  solicitation,  but  he 
jdid  not  hear.  He  sat  with  hands  folded  before 
him,  silent  and  distraught.  Fortunes  were  being 
made  and  lost  each  moment;  he  remained  indiffer- 
ent. His  face  had  lost  its  colour,  his  eye  its 
keenness;  it  was  evident  that  he  and  sleep  were 
strangers.  And  over  and  over  again  his  tired  mind 
uttered  one  question,  "  What  if  it  be  true?  " 


THE  VOICE 


Gold,  gold,  gold — that  had  been  the  one  word 
that  hitherto  had  spelt  the  whole  meaning  of  his 
life.  He  had  known  poverty;  he  had  known  fierce 
struggles,  and  defeats  that  had  seetned  irretrievable; 
but  always  he  had  struggled  up  again,  had  fought 
on  with  a  courage  which  in  any  other  cause  might 
be  called  heroic,  and  had  pursued  the  golden  phan- 
tom men  called  success  with  desperate  endeavour. 
He  had  asked  for  no  better  kind  of  life.  He  had 
been  wholly  contented  with  it;  nay,  more,  he  had 
been  enamoured  of  its  very  risks,  invigorated  to 
his  inmost  fibre  by  its  difficulties.  And  now,  in  a 
single  moment,  all  his  thoughts  had  changed.  His 
gold  seemed  but  a  handful  of  yellow  dirt,  his  strug- 
gle to  possess  it,  folly.  Yet  he  did  not  mean  to 
give  it  up.  His  intention  was  quite  otherwise;  it 
was  to  banish  from  his  mind  the  causes  of  his 
discontent.  And  this  he  could  not  do.  He  fumbled 
blindly  for  the  rudder  of  his  life :  the  steering-gear 
was  broken,  and  no  longer  answered  to  his  will 

He  swting  round  angrily  to  his  desk,  tried  again 
to  settle  to  his  work,  but  after  a  few  moments  once 
more  sat  erect,  staring  into  nothingness.  "  What 
if  it  be  true?"  The  question  seemed  to  flame 
upon  the  air.  Well,  if  it  were  true,  what  did  it 
imply  ?  But  he  dared  not  gaze  long  into  that  abyss 
of  thought.  Yet  he  could  not  keep  away  from  it. 
West  said  he  had  seen  the  Lord.  There     re  other 


3i6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


people  vho  said  the  same  thing.  Well,  suppose 
that  the  Lord  should  come  to  him?  He  shivered 
at  the  thought.  Yet  if  it  weie  really  true  that  Christ 
had  come,  there  was  no  knowing  to  whom  He  might 
appear.  At  that  very  instant  His  foot  might  be 
upon  the  stairs.  Of  course,  if  he  were  sure  of 
that,  he  would  live  a  very  diflferent  life.  He  would 
simply  have  to.  He  would  certainly  not  like  Christ 
to  know  some  of  those  transa  s  by  which  his 
weaith  had  grown.  Ah,  but  .  ^  not  true:  it 
could  not  be.  He  reassured  himself  by  calling  West 
a  fool,  and  himself  a  greater  fool  for  being  fooled 
by  him.  The  jibe  seemed  successful.  For  at  least 
five  minutes  he  was  able  to  read  his  correspondence. 
He  rose,  and  consulted  the  tape  about  a  stock  in 
which  he  was  deeply  interested.  But  even  while 
he  did  it,  his  hand  trembled,  he  forgot  his  purpose, 
and  stood  staring  at  the  wall,  on  which  he  saw 
distinctly  the  letters  form  themselves  of  the  same 
alarming  question,  "What  if  it  be  true?" 

Payson  Hume  was  the  type  of  multitudes  of 
inen  and  women  in  New  York  that  day.  There  is 
no  mar  more  liable  to  sudden  terror  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  the  supernatural  than  the  absolutely  worldly 
man.  The  mere  fact  that  he  has  shut  out  the 
mystic  light  from  his  life,  wilfully  and  resolutely, 
makes  that  light  all  the  more  terrific  when  it  does 
break  through.    He  is  wholly  unprepared  for  it. 


THE  VOICE 


317 


and  he  quails  before  it.  People  who,  in  a  sense, 
have  always  had  that  light  may  leam  to  disregard 
it,  as,  alas!  many  Christians  do.  But  men  of  Pay- 
son  Hume's  type,  never  having  had  it,  are  startled, 
shocked,  and  overwhelmed  by  it  when  it  does  appear. 
And  perhaps  this  is  the  explanation  of  the  strange 
fact  that  a  man  like  Payson  Hume,  thoroughly 
worldly  and  of  the  world,  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
words  West  had  spoken,  while  the  senior  deacon 
was  incredulous. 

He  continued  to  open  his  mail;  but  he  had  not 
gone  far  before  he  stopped. 

The  letter  which  he  was  reading  was  from  the 
widow  of  a  minister  named  Jobson.  Jobson  he  re- 
membered as  an  anxious-looking  man,  the  pastor  of 
a  small  country  church,  who  had  by  immense  thrift 
saved  two  thousand  dollars,  which  he  had  brought 
to  him  for  investment.  The  investment  had  failed, 
and  Jobson's  distress  had  been  so  great  that  in 
a  weak  moment  Hume  had  given  him  a  written 
promise  that  he  would  undertake  that  the  capital 
sum  should  not  be  lost.  The  promise  was  abso- 
lutely clear;  it  bound  Hume  and  his  heirs  to  repay 
the  sum  of  two  thousand  dollars  at  some  subse- 
quent time  which  was  not  named.  Hume  regretted 
his  promise  as  soon  as  it  was  made,  but  he  could 
not  cancel  it.  He  knew  perfectly  well,  however, 
that  Jobson  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  enforce 


ai8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


it  by  legal  means.  Ministers  never  did  that,  for 
the  reputation  of  a  minister  was  so  delicate  a  mat- 
ter that,  whether  he  happened  to  be  right  or  wrong, 
he  always  suffered  by  a  legal  contest  over  money. 
In  course  of  time  Hume  forgot  the  whole  thing. 
Then  Jobson  had  died  suddenly,  and  his  widow, 
finding  this  letter  amoi  g  her  husband's  papers, 
had  at  once  written  Hume  asking  for  the  fulfihnent 
of  his  promise. 

Hume  had  replied  that  when  he  had  made  this 
promise,  he  expected  to  fulfil  it,  but  that  circum- 
stances had  greatly  altered  with  himself.  There 
had  been  a  great  stringency  in  the  money  mar^»t, 
and  he  himself  was  pressed  for  money.  Painful 
as  it  waa  to  him,  he  must  therefore  repudiate  his 
promise. 

This  excuse  was  untrue.  The  only  element  of 
fact  in  it  was  that  he  had  lost  a  considerable  sum 
of  money  through  an  unexpected  fall  in  stock,  but 
it  was  not  sufficient  to  produce  more  than  tem- 
porary inconvenience.  His  method  of  life  was  un- 
altered. He  still  kept  his  automobile  and  his  horses; 
his  household  expenditure  was  not  reduced.  But 
he  took  counsel  with  his  greed  rather  than  his 
honour,  and  persuaded  himself  quite  readily  that 
he  was  not  bound  to  fulfil  a  claim  so  unusual.  It 
would  be  a  pretty  thing  if  every  man  for  whom  he 
made  investments  were  to  demand  iiis  money  back 


THE  VOICE 


319 


in  full  when  an  investment  failed.  At  that  rate 
he  would  be  a  bankrupt  in  a  year.  Jobson  ought 
to  have  been  prepared  to  take  his  risk  like  other 
men.  By  dint  of  such  arguments  as  these  he  soon 
came  to  believe  that  he  was  the  injured  party,  not 
Jobson. 

So  he  wrote  his  letter  of  repudiation,  and  this 
was  the  reply.  It  was  a  very  temperate  and  sad 
letter  which  the  widow  had  written.  It  was  clear 
that  she  had  no  knowledge  of  business.  She  ac- 
cepted his  statement,  and  symp9thised  with  him 
upon  his  losses.  But,  she  added,  his  letter  was  a 
severe  disappointment  to  her.  The  sum  which  her 
husband  had  so  unfortunately  invested  was  the  sav- 
ings of  a  lifetime.  She  wr  therefore,  left  in 
great  poverty,  and  did  not  know  what  she  would 
do. 

Hume  read  the  letter,  re-read  it,  and  then  sat 
gazing  at  it  in  silence.  He  expected  recrimination 
and  reproach;  it  contained  neither.  The  letter  was 
written  upon  conmion  paper,  in  a  delicate  sloping 
handwriting,  with  some  erasures  and  underlinings 
— a  typical  woman's  letter.  Its  meaning,  however, 
was  quite  clear;  it  released  him  from  his  promise. 
Well,  that  ended  it.  He  had  come  off  better  than 
he  had  expected.  The  widow  would  no  doubt  shift 
somehow;  it  was  extraordinary  how  such  people 
always  contrived  to  fall  upon  their  feet.    At  all 


2»     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


events  he  Had  no  further  responsibility  for  her 
and  her  affairs. 

But  the  thought  was  no  sooner  formed  in  his 
mind,  than  another  thought  intruded.  What  would 
Christ  have  to  say  on  such  a  matter?  What  if  the 
air  of  the  office  e\  en  now  quivered  with  a  Presence, 
and  Christ  stood  before  him! 

"  Woe  unto  you,  scribes  and  Pharisees,  who  de- 
vour widows'  houses,  and  for  a  pretence  make  long 
prayers! " 

From  some  secret  cabinet  of  memory  the  words 
flashed  out  upon  him,  keen  as  a  glittering  sword. 
He  dropped  the  letter  as  though  it  had  stung  him. 

He  looked  round  the  room  fearfully.  Nothing  in 
it  changed.  The  tape  still  clicked,  as  it  un- 
wound its  messages  of  mamnioii;  it  spoke  of  a  me- 
chanical world,  which  fulfilled  its  course,  undis- 
turbed by  foolish  dreams.  It  seemed  to  say: 
"  Money  is  the  great  end  of  man.  You  must  make 
money.  You  are  wasting  time,  and  time  is  money." 
But  clearer  yet  spoke  another  voice,  "  What  shall  it 
jirofit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose 
his  own  soul  ?  " 

"  Payson  Hume,  give  me  that  letter.   I  want  to 

see  it." 

No  audible  voice  had  spoken,  yet  he  was  sure 
the  words  were  uttered. 

"  Payson  Hume,  you  have  plenty,  and  more  than 


THE  VOICE 


heart  can  wish.  This  poor  widow  has  nothing. 
You  fare  sumptuously  every  day;  the  poor  woman 
has  breakfasted  on  bread  moistened  with  her  tears. 
You  are  strong  and  active;  she  is  old  and  frail. 
She  has  children  over  whom  her  heart  yearns.  The 
loss  of  this  money  will  be  little  to  her,  for  she 
will  soon  be  with  Me  in  Paradise.  But  her  boy 
will  not  be  educated;  he  will  know  many  years  of 
hopeless  drudgery  before  the  merciful  release  of 
death  comes.  Her  girl  will  spend  her  little  strength 
in  an  unequal  fight  for  bread.  She  will  fight  on 
till  hope  and  strength  are  both  exhausted;  then 
she  will  sink  into  the  mire  of  shame.  Payson 
Hume,  will  you  do  these  things — for  they  will  be 
your  doing, — and  all  for  two  thousand  dollars? 
Will  you  sell  your  soul  so  cheap,  the  soul  for  which 
I  died?" 

He  would  like  to  have  replied;  he  felt  some  an- 
swer was  expected  from  him.  But  to  whom  should 
he  reply?  He  could  not  address  the  vacant  air. 
Ah,  but  was  it  vacant?  He  knew  that  it  was  not, 

and  his  blood  stiffened  at  the  thought. 

The  Voice  spoke  again;  it  was  as  if  the  air  itself 
spoke. 

"Payson  Hume,  for  five-and-forty  years  you 
have  lived  in  this  world.  You  have  seen  much  of 
human  life :  has  nothing  taught  you  pity  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  without  pity,"  he  cried,  in  a  hoarse 


I 


.11 


,  'tnJifl 


222     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

voice.  "  People  have  even  called  int  j»?neroa£. 
At  the  most,  I  am  no  worse  than  my  ne  i^h\jo\irs.  ' 

"A  certain  man  went  down  from  Jeffsa'cm  to 
Jericho,  and  fell  among  thieves,  who  beat  him,  and 
left  him  by  the  wayside  half  dead,"  replied  the 
Voice.  "  Two  men,  a  priest  and  a  Levite,  passed 
by  upon  their  several  errands,  and  said,  '  Poor 
fellow,  he  seems  badly  hurt,  but  after  all  it  is  no 
affair  of  ours';  and  each,  doubtless,  thought  him- 
self pitifvd.  Another  man  came  along  the  road, 
a  poor  man,  and  a  heretic,  whom  both  the  Priest 
and  Levite  would  have  abhorred.  This  man  did 
not  content  himself  with  saying,  *  Poor  fellow';  he 
lifted  up  the  wounded  man,  dressed  his  wotmds, 
and  took  him  to  a  place  of  safety.  That  was  pity. 
Payson  Hume,  would  you  have  done  that?" 

He  was  silent. 

"  No,"  pursued  the  Voice,  "  you  would  not  have 
done  it.    Had  you  been  there,  you  would  have 
searched  the  clothing  of  the  wounded  man  to  take 
what  the  thieves  had  left." 
.    "  I  am  not  a  thief !  "  he  cried. 

"  Payson  Hume,"  said  the  Voice,  "  how  have  you 
got  your  money?  I  will  tell  you,  for  I  know  all 
about  it.  How  often  have  you  bought  something 
which  you  knew  was  worth  a  large  sum  for  a  little 
sum,  because  he  from  whom  you  bought  it  was 
poor  and  in  distress?  How  often  have  you  taken 


THE  VOICE 


223 


advantage  of  the  guileless,  and  those  who  had  no 

worldly  wisdom?  O,  you  have  not  robbed  them 
in  the  daylight,  and  left  them  half  dead,  as  did 
those  Jericho  robbers;  for  such  acts  there  is  punish- 
ment, and  you  dared  not  do  them.  But  you  have 
intrigued,  lied,  and  deceived  to  get  your  gold.  You 
have  held  nothing  sacred  when  your  greed  clam- 
oured for  its  gratification,  neither  truth  nor  honour, 
neither  justice  nor  compassion.  The  thief  who 
steals  because  he  is  hungry  goes  to  prison;  but  there 
is  another  kind  of  thief  who  steals  for  greed,  and 
he  is  not  punished.  Nevertheless,  he  is  the  worst 
of  thieves.  Payson  Hume,  I  tell  you  that  those 
Jericho  robbers  who  stole  for  need  were  honest 
men  compared  with  you,  who  steal  for  greed." 

"  I  have  done  no  more,  no  worse  than  a  thousand 
other  men  have  done! "  he  cried. 

"  Though  a  thousand  do  evil,  yet  that  is  no  ex- 
cuse for  you.  What  have  these  other  men  to  do 
with  vou?  When  the  name  of  Payson  Hume  is 
called  on  the  Judgment  Day,  will  those  other  men 
you  speak  of  take  your  place?  Will  they  bear  the 
burden  of  your  acts?  Will  they  suffer  for  you, 
and  be  punished  in  your  stead?  No,  they  cannot, 
even  if  they  would.  Every  man  must  bear  his 
own  burden." 

Once  more  he  was  silent.  He  had  passed  beyond 
wonder.    Unnatural  as  it  seemed,  yet  he  knew 


294     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

the  Voice  was  real.  And  he  knew  also  that  it  spoke 
with  an  authority  which  he  dared  not  contest.  Yet 
there  was  one  question  which  he  ached  to  ask.  His 
voice  sank  into  a  whisper,  and  at  last  he  asked  it: 

"  Who  is  it  who  is  speaking  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  One  who  has  known  you  all  your  days; 
known  you  so  thoroughly  that  no  minutest  act  has 
been  hidden  from  My  eyes.  I  saw  you  when  you 
were  laid  within  your  mother's  arms,  a  helpless, 
wailing  babe.  I  was  near  you  in  your  childhood 
and  your  boyhood,  and  there  were  moments  when 
your  face  was  turned  towards  Mine.  But  as  the 
years  came,  more  and  more  you  turned  away  from 
Me.  You  grew  hard,  selfish,  covetous  of  gain. 
You  had  a  partner  in  your  business  who  put  im- 
plicit faith  in  you;  you  robbed  him  without  mercy, 
and  at  last  thrust  him  out,  when  you  could  rob 
him  no  more.  He  is  an  old  man  now,  waiting  for 
death  in  the  city  poorhouse;  but  he  is  happier  than 
you.  You  had  friends,  or  those  who  passed  for 
friends;  but  not  one  of  them  ever  loved  you;  they 
used  you  for  their  advantage,  as  you  used  them, 
and  were  you  begging  bread  to-morrow,  not  one 
of  them  would  help  you.  You  have  won  the  thing 
you  sought,  no  doubt;  you  have  gold;  but  you  have 
paid  for  it  with  your  own  soul.  Was  it  worth  the 
price?  Is  it  not  a  better  thing  to  live  with  poverty 
in  stainless  honour,  to  have  friends  who  love  you 


THE  VOICE 


225 


for  yourself,  to  possess  a  heart  that  is  pure  and 
gentle,  in  which  happiness  can  dwell,  than  to  be 
what  you  are,  a  man  whose  heart  is  eaten  out  with 
greed,  of  whom  nothing  more  than  this  is  known 
that  he  has  lived  to  win  money,  and  has  won  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  admit  I  did  wrong  in  that  matter  of 
the  partnership.    But  it  was  long  ago." 

"  Payson  Hume,"  the  Voice  replied,  with  stern- 
ness, "have  you  lived  all  these  years  and  never 
known  that  there  is  a  present  and  a  future  in  men's 
sinnings,  but  no  past?  All  human  acts  are  things 
with  roots;  they  propagate  themselves,  and  bear 
their  fruit,  whether  good  or  evil,  as  long  as  life 
lasts — and  longer.  Men  suffer  to-day  for  evils 
wrought  centuries  before  their  birth;  and  the  evils 
they  themselves  commit  will  outlast  them  by  cen- 
turies. Is  not  that  true?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,"  he  groaned.  "  I  have  never 
thought  of  it  like  that,  but  I  see  that  it  is  true." 

"  And  yet  you  would  add  fresh  sins  to  the  cata- 
logue— you  would  sow  fresh  seeds  of  evil.  Payson 
Hume,  I  have  known  your  past ;  I  also  foresee  your 
future.  You  have  lived  for  five-and-forty  years, 
and  since  you  passed  out  of  the  innocence  of  boy- 
hood, each  year  has  witnessed  your  deterioration. 
You  have  but  a  few  more  years  to  live ;  you  your- 
self must  needs  know  that.  I  see  the  shadows 
gathering  in  your  path — ^I  sec  you  treading  it,  more 


if 


236     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


and  more  alone,  a  man  friendless  and  unhonoured, 
with  no  living  bonds  that  bind  him  to  his  kind.  And 
in  those  shadows  all  your  sins  will  lie  in  wait  for 
you.  That  old  man  dying  in  the  poorhouse  will  be 
there,  and  how  many  others  whom  you  have  robbed 
and  beggared,  each  with  the  long  records  of  his 
tears,  demanding  tear  for  tear,  agony  for  agony 
from  you." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  in  overmastering  terror. 

"  No,  no!  "  he  cried — "  not  that.  Lord.  Is  there 
no  other  way  ?  " 

And  then  he  fell  upon  his  knees. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  more  terrible  than  any 
speech.  It  fell  upon  him  with  an  awful  pressure, 
till  the  very  sinews  of  his  strength  dissolved  beneath 
its  weight.  His  one  prayer  now  was  that  the 
Voice  would  speak  again,  his  one  dread  that  It 
would  not. 

At  last  It  spoke,  and  no  longer  sternly.  There 
was  a  gentleness  in  It  that  fell  like  a  soft  hand 
upon  his  tortured  heart. 
.  "  There  is  another  way,"  It  said,  "  for  such  is 
the  boundless  grace  of  God  that  no  man  need  con- 
tinue in  his  sins  who  is  willing  to  forsake  them. 

"  God  gives  you  one  more  chance;  it  is  the  last. 
Take  the  letter  which  lies  now  upon  your  desk, 
and  answer  it.  Tell  the  widow,  whom  you  would 
have  robbed,  that  you  will  restore  fourfold  the 


THE  VOICE 


227 


money  that  is  hers.  Put  away  the  evil  of  your 
doings;  cease  to  do  evil,  learn  to  do  well;  seek 
judgment,  relieve  the  oppressed,  judge  the  father- 
less, plead  the  cause  of  the  widow.  Do  this,  a*-.*! 
it  shall  be  that  when  the  shadows  fall  they  shall 
not  be  without  light;  friendly  hands  shall  meet 
you  there,  welcoming  lips  shall  speak  your  name, 
and  the  blessing  of  the  poor  shall  build  the  monu- 
ment upon  your  grave,  and  be  your  memorial 
among  men." 

The  Voice  ceased,  but  the  silence  was  no  more 
a  pressure  on  his  heart;  it  was  an  embrace.  He 
felt  a  sense  of  living  warmth,  a  sudden  glow  of 
hope  and  resolution. 

"  Master,  Master,"  he  whispered,  "  hast  Thou 
indeed  spoken  to  such  an  one  as  I  ?  " 

He  rose  from  his  knees,  his  face  convulsed  with 
tears,  but  all  kindled  and  radiant,  too,  with  a  new 
and  lovely  light. 

His  first  act  was  to  write  to  Mrs.  Jobson.  He 
told  her  bluntly  that  he  had  meant  to  rob  her;  he 
asked  her  forgiveness,  and  he  enclosed  a  draft  for 
four  times  the  money  he  had  promised  her.  He  had 
just  signed  his  letter  when  there  was  a  knock  upon 
the  door,  and  Mercy  Lane  entered.  It  was  part 
of  her  business  to  collect  subscriptions  for  her 
work;  it  was  a  task  she  hated. 

"Ah,  Miss  Lane,"  he  said,  with  a  welcoming 


228     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


smile,  "  you  have  come  at  a  happy  moment.  Tell 
me  about  your  work." 

She  gave  him  such  details  as  were  freshest  in  her 
memory. 

"  And  what  is  my  subscription  ?  " 

She  told  him.  He  paid  each  month  twice  as 
much  for  his  cigars. 

"  Ah,  it  seems  rather  small,  doesn't  it?  "  he  said. 

"  I've  had  that  thought  at  times  myself,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  whimsical  glance. 

"  Well,  let  us  change  it,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  make 
it  fourfold.  Fourfold,  you  understand." 

She  listened  with  astonishment.  She  had  long 
ago  simimed  up  Payson  Hume  as  a  hard  man,  who 
gave  grudgingly;  she  had  usually  to  make  three 
or  four  visits  to  him  before  he  gave  her  his  ex- 
ceedingly modest  contribution. 

"And  let  me  see,"  he  continued;  "you  must  be 
always  needing  money  in  a  work  like  yours  for 
private  charity.  Cases  of  particular  distress,  you 
know.  I  should  like  to  share  with  you  in  that 
.  kind  of  giving.  Draw  on  me  for  five  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  when  you  want  more,  come  again." 

A  clerk  entered  anxiously. 

"What  is  it?"  Hume  asked. 

The  clerk  looked  significantly  at  Mercy  Lane. 

"  O,  you  may  speak,"  Hume  said. 

"  Well,  sir,  there's  a  great  flurry  in  the  market 


THE  VOICE  229 

in  Canadian  Pacifies.  Rogers  has  sent  over  an 
urgent  message  that  you  must  act  at  once.  There 
is  a  big  profit  to  be  taken  on  rapid  selling.  What 
are  your  instructions,  sir?" 

"Instructions?"  he  said,  with  a  grave  smile. 
"  Why,  let  me  see.  Tell  Rogers  I've  closed  up 
business  for  to-day." 

"  But  he  says  this  can't  stand  over,  sir." 

**  O,  he  says  that,  does  he  ?  Well  then,  tell  him 
I've  made  as  much  money  as  I  want.  I  don't  need 
more.  In  fact,  I've  fotmd  a  new  investment,  from 
which  I  expect  returns  so  great  that  I  intend  to  put 
all  my  capital  into  it." 

"  He  is  greatly  annoyed,  sir.  His  message  was 
most  urgent.  Shall  I  tell  him  what  your  new 
investment  is  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  have  no  wish  to  keep  it  to  myself. 
Tell  him  that  I  am  about  to  invest  all  my  money  in 
the  stock  of  Human  Kindness." 

"  Never  heard  of  that  stock/'  said  the  clerk,  in 
bewilderment. 

"Didn't  you?"  said  Hume.  "Well,  this  lady 
can  tell  you  all  about  it.  She's  one  of  the  Directors 
in  the  Company.  And  now,  Miss  Lane,  if  you  will 
do  me  the  honour,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  let 
me  walk  with  you  to  the  scene  of  your  labours. 
To  examine,  for  myself,  you  know,  the  kind  of 
investment  I  am  making.    It  has  always  been  my 


230     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


rule  never  to  make  investments  without  the  closest 
personal  investigation." 

"  It  is  my  belief,"  said  the  clerk,  an  hour  later, 
as  he  sat  at  luncli  with  some  fellow-clerks,  "that 
our  old  man's  gone  crazy.  They've  got  all  kinds 
of  queer  names  for  mines — there's  Happy  Day, 
and  Old  Hundred,  and  lots  of  others, — but  I  never 
heard  of  one  called  Human  Kindness;  did  you?  " 

"  Depend  upon  it,  we  shall  hear  of  it  soon 
enough,  if  Hume's  in  it,"  said  another  clerk. 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  it  has  a  precious  queer  sound 
to  me,"  said  Hume's  clerk.  "  You  mark  what  I 
say,  there's  something  or  somebody  has  got  a  hold 
on  Payson  Hume.  Saw  him  go  off  with  a  kind  of 
nurse  before  noon  when  the  market  was  calling 
to  him.  Didn't  care  a  continental  about  what 
Rogers  had  to  say.  H  that  does  not  look  like  crazi- 
ness,  I'd  like  to  know  what  does?  " 

The  c  °rk  was  quite  wrong  in  his  conclusion,  but 
one  of  his  statements  was  much  truer  than  he  knew. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Something  or  Some- 
body had  got  a  hold  on  Payson  Hume. 


XIII 
HELEN'S  CASE 

PERHAPS,  when  life  reaches  its  last  chapters, 
the  happiest  hours  will  appear  those  which 
have  been  most  fully  touched  with  the  spirit 
of  enthusiasm.  For  the  enthusiast,  life  is  a  series  of 
breathless  surprises,  adventures,  romances;  for  the 
religious  enthusiast,  life  is  the  romance  of  the 
infinite.  Even  though  every  goal  prove  illusory, 
every  dream  untrue,  yet  the  fire  and  passion  kindled 
in  the  quest  will  remain,  and  will  dower  age  itself 
with  the  spirit  of  undying  youth.  But  God  help 
those  whose  coldly  calculated  years  move  to  a  cal- 
culated close,  without  any  memory  of  heart-beats 
quickened  by  a  wise  folly,  by  the  sting  of  impulses 
thirsting  for  the  unattainable;  for  to  such  each 
succeeding  year  is  but  a  rehearsal  of  the  hour  of 
burial. 

Helen  West,  as  she  sat  in  her  room  in  her 
mother's  home  at  Bedminster,  was  experiencing 
what  these  things  meant,  without  being  conscious  of 
their  causes. 

It  was  Stmday  morning;  she  had  just  returned 

331 


232     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

from  the  Unitarian  Church.  Tlie  prim,  dreary  street 
of  the  little  New  England  town  lay  beneath  her 
window;  prim  old-fashioned  people  moved  along 
it  in  little  groups;  prim  lawns  lay  under  the  ancient 
trees;  a  sedate,  serenely  dull  town,  with  something 
meagre  and  narrow  in  its  very  atmosphere.  The 
service  in  which  she  had  participated  had  had  the 
same  note  of  mcagreness.  The  very  hymns  had 
been  pared  down  in  sentiment  by  the  hand  of  theo- 
logical frugality.  The  sermon  had  been  destitute 
of  imagination  as  a  proposition  in  Euclid.  And 
then  the  complacency  of  the  whole  performance; 
the  almost  insolent  note  of  sufficiency;  the  assump- 
tion tliat  wisdom  died  with  Emerson,  and  that  out- 
side this  feebly  irradiated  spot  of  New  England  the 
whole  world  lay  in  gross  darkness!  She  smiled 
a  little  bitterly  at  the  thought.  She  remembered 
also  that  it  was  a  thought  that  had  never  visited 
her  before.  But  the-*  she  had  never  before  brought 
a  wounded  heart  with  her  to  Bedminster.  It  is 
strange  how  differently  the  world  appears  to  the 
"Wounded  and  the  unwounded  heart. 

Once  more  she  went  wearily  over  the  present  con- 
ditions of  her  life:  she  had  done  little  else  since 
her  arrival  in  Bedminster.  How  long  was  this 
estrangement  from  her  husband  to  last  ?  How  long 
was  she  to  act  a  part,  concealing  her  anguish  as 
she  best  could  under  a  studied  vivacity?  For 


HELEN'S  CASE  233 

hiiherto  she  had  made  no  confession  to  her  mother 
or  her  friends.  She  had  allowed  them  to  assume 
that  she  had  come  home  merely  for  rest  from  the 
too  ardent  toils  of  the  city.  Did  they  know  better? 
The  very  suspicion  humbled  her  .vith  shame.  Some- 
times she  thought  she  read  caustic  interrogation  in 
their  glances;  she  had  become  so  sensitive  that  she 
detected  pity  in  a  hand's  shake.  At  other  times  she 
comforted  herself  that  Bedminster  was  so  remote 
a  backwater  in  the  great  stream  of  life  that  an 
earthquake  in  New  York  would  be  a  month  old 
before  Bedminster  began  to  talk  of  it.  But  her 
better  sense  told  her  that,  sooner  or  later,  the  truth 
must  be  known.  And  when  it  was  known,  where 
should  she  hide  her  head  ?  And  with  that  reflection 
her  pride  stiffened  her  with  hoops  of  steel. 

Well,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done — only  to 
endure.  Women  had  been  mistaken  in  their  hus- 
bands before;  she  was  not  the  only  one.  But  surely 
no  one  had  ever  made  a  mistake  so  incalculable  as 
hers;  it  would  have  been  a  thing  easier  to  bear  had 
her  husband  been  from  the  first  a  fool,  whom  she 
had  sedulously  tried  to  guard  and  save;  she  could 
then  at  least  have  pleaded  her  own  heroism.  But 
to  marry  a  man  who  seemed  wise,  to  boast  of  his 
wisdom  as  she  had  done  a  hundred  times,  and  then 
to  have  to  acknowledge  him  a  fool — that  was  a 
wrong  and  a  humiliation  beyond  remedy.   It  was 


234     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


she  who  stooti  self -accused  of  niisjudgment,  she 
who  had  always  moved  before  these  friends  of  her 
youth  as  a  small  Hypatia  of  wisdom!  There  lay 
the  real  secret  of  her  misery — liurt  self-esteem. 

As  her  languid  eye  watched  the  road,  she  saw 
a  figure  approaching  whom  she  tliought  she  knew : 
a  moment  later  she  rccnj^Miised  Dr.  Littleton.  Her 
spirits  rose  with  a  su<l(leii  houml.  No  douhl  he 
was  coming  as  an  ambassador  frovi  her  husband. 
She  ran  downstairs  and  stood  eagerly  at  the  door 
to  welcome  him. 

"Well,  Doctor?"  she  said  brightly,  holding  out 
both  hands  to  him. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  been 
preaching  at  Stowe,  and  thought  I  would  come  over 
to  dine  with  you,  if  you'll  have  me." 

Then  he  did  not  come  from  her  husband;  her 
countenance  fell.  He  was  quick  to  mark  the  change. 

"  I  was  in  New  York  yesterday,"  he  said.  "  You 
and  I  must  have  a  little  talk  presently." 

She  understood  and,  in  spite  of  her  pride,  her 
•heart  gave  a  wild  throb. 

At  this  moment  dinner  was  served,  and  there  was 
no  further  opportunity  oi  conversation.  Helen's 
mother,  Mrs.  Parke,  came  forward  to  welcome  her 
guest.  She  was  a  woman  fast  passing  into  old  age, 
with  a  delusive  fragility  of  appearance.  Her  figure 
was  upiigiiL  and  attenuated,  her  face  delicately 


HELEN'S  CASE  235 

wrinkled;  soft  white  hair,  in  two  tliin  rippled  waves, 
lay  over  a  high,  narrow  forehead;  the  eyes  were 
of  a  dimmed  blue,  still  keen  and  shrewd,  however, 
and  the  mouth  was  firm.  She  had  passed  all  her 
life  in  Bedminster,  and  was  much  respected  as  the 
last  member  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  the 
little  town.  She  had  arrived  at  fixity  of  opinion 
nn  most  subjects  quite  early  in  life,  and  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  life  had  not  been  favourable 
to  change.  She  was  a  woman  without  regrets, 
without  illusions;  slie  had  felt  no  need  of  a  larger 
world  than  that  in  which  her  lot  was  cast;  she 
was  content  to  move  in  an  ascertained  orbit,  nar- 
row but  sufficient,  with  no  sense  of  larger  heavens 
around  her.  She  was,  in  fact,  an  excellent  example 
of  the  cultivated  provincialism  of  New  England. 

Dr.  Littleton  greeted  her  with  the  ease  of  old 
friendship,  but  as  the  meal  proceeded  conversation 
languisiied.  How  much  did  the  mother  know  of  the 
daughter's  circumstances?  He  scanned  the  two 
faces  before  him  shrewdly,  but  they  revealed  noth- 
ing. And  yet  something  was  revealed,  for  they 
had  much  in  common.  It  seemed  to  Dr.  Littleton 
that  he  had  never  noticed  the  likeness  before,  or 
at  least,  not  so  markedly,  and  this  disturbed  him. 
Helen's  life  had  been  very  different  from  her 
mother's;  it  had  had  a  breachh  of  interest  and  activ- 
ity which  her  mother's  had  not  known;  but  what  if 


236     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


Helen's  character  still  retained  the  hard  narrow- 
ness of  this  New  England  provincialism  which  dis- 
tinguished her  mother? 

And  by  a  sudden  swift  intuition  he  surmised  that 
this  was  really  so.  The  larger  life  of  Helen  had 
but  put  a  polish  on  granite;  the  impenetrable  strata 
remained.   And  his  heart  fell  at  the  thought. 

He  was  roused  from  his  uneasy  reverie  by  the 
direct  question  of  Mrs.  Parke.  "And  now,  Doc- 
tor, tell  me  how  Francis  is  going  on,  for  Helen  has 
told  me  nothing." 

It  was  the  question  which  he  had  feared.  He 
looked  apprehensively  at  Helen.  She  immediately 
took  up  the  challenge. 

"  You  are  quite  free  to  speak,  Doctor,"  she  said. 
"  Indeed,  I  wish  you  would." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  I  hope  you  have 
nothing  very  surprising  to  communicate,"  said  Mrs. 
Parke. 

"  Well,  yes,  it  is  surprising.  But  I  suppose  you 
ought  to  know,  and  since  Helen  has  said  nothing, 
•I  must." 

And  thereupon  he  gave  a  plain  uncoloured  state- 
ment of  his  recent  interview  with  West.  He  was 
careful  to  suppress  his  own  opinions.  He  owned 
himself  perplexed.  He  laid  great  stress  upon  West's 
evident  sincerity,  his  loneliness,  his  need  of  love 
and  friendship.     His  own  affection  for  West 


HELEN'S  CASE  237 

warmed  with  his  advocacy  of  him.  But  as  he  pro- 
ceeded, the  face  of  Mrs.  Parke  became  pale  and 
rigid.  At  last  she  interrupted  him. 

"  Do  I  understand  that  Francis  and  Helen  have 
separated?"  she  asked,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Helen  can  best  tell  you  that,"  he  replied. 

Helen  had  been  sitting  during  all  the  time  that 
Littleton  had  spoken,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands.  She  now  lifted  a  miserable  face  to  her 
mother,  and  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Yes." 

"Did  he  consent  to  it?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  left  him?" 
"Yes." 

"  And  you  came  home  to  me,  and  did  not  tell  me 

a  word." 

"  Mother,  I  could  not  tell  yoa" 

"  Why  not?" 

"  You  would  not  have  understood." 

"  I  understand  better  than  you  think,"  she  re- 
torted. "  I  understand  that  you  have  been  disloyal 
to  both  him  and  me,  and  that  you  have  disgraced  us 
both." 

The  words  were  so  surprising  that  neither  Little- 
ton nor  Helen  spoke  for  some  moments.  Up  to  this 
point  Helen  had  never  doubted  that  her  mother 
would  approve  her  action,  and  Littleton  had  held 
the  same  view. 


238     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  Mother,"  Helen  said,  at  last,  "  you  cannot  mean 
what  you  say.  Or,  if  you  do,  you  only  prove  your 
entire  incapacity  to  understand." 

"  O,  I  know  you  have  a  poor  opinion  of  my  dis- 
cernment," she  replied.  "  Nevertheless,  I  am  twice 
your  age,  and  there  are  some  things  I  see  quite 
clearly  which  you  do  not  see  at  all.  And  the  chief 
thing  I  see  is  this:  that  a  wife's  place  is  beside  her 
husband,  as  long  as  he  loves  her,  whatever  he  may 
do  or  think.  You  took  him  for  better  or  for  worse, 
and  you  have  no  right  to  leave  him  because  things 
turn  out  against  your  wishes." 

"But,  mother,"  said  Helen,  stung  at  last  into 
anger,  "  it  is  not  a  case  of  things  turning  out  against 
my  wishes.  It  is  a  case  of  what  he  thinks  truth, 
and  what  I  think." 

"  A  case  not  of  truth,  but  of  pride,  as  I  read  it,  of 
perverse  foolish  pride  on  your  part.  And  not  only 
foolish,  but  cruel  pride,  for  you  have  never  given  a 
thought  to  the  disgrace  you  put  upon  both  him 
and  me." 

"  Ah,  I  see,  you  are  all  for  convention,  mother, 
and  you  don't  care  for  the  question  of  truth  at  all. 
And  for  me  convention  is  nothing  and  truth  every- 
thing." 

"  And  if  I  understand  what  Dr.  Littleton  has 
said,  that  is  exactly  what  Francis  says  about  him- 
self; and  what  right,  therefore,  have  you  to  blame 


HELEN'S  CASE  239 

him?  But  I  don't  mind  admitting  that  your  outcry 
about  truth  doesn't  interest  me  at  all." 
"  That  again,  mother,  is  a  thing  you  don't  mean." 
"  I  mean  every  word  of  it,"  she  repHed,  "  and  for 
this  reason :  I've  lived  long  enough  to  see  all  kinds 
of  so-called  truths  explode  like  rockets,  and  leave 
the  world  no  brighter.    Francis  may  be  right  or 
wrong  in  his  opinions — I  am  not  going  to  trouble 
myself  to  decide.    But  what  you  call  convention 
cc  .tinues  long  after  all  the  rockets  have  exploded. 
Convention  simply  means  doing  your  duty  in  the 
ordinary  human  way,  whatever  happens.    I  don't 
know  whether  Christ  is  coming  or  has  come,  or 
anything  about  it,  and  I  don't  care  to  know.  But 
I'm  quite  sure  of  this,  that  if  He  should  come  He'll 
expect  to  find  you  living  with  your  husband,  and 
putting  up  with  his  faults,  and  giving  him  your 
affection,  and  keeping  your  vows  to  him;  and  He'll 
think  the  better  of  you  if  you  do  these  things,  and 
the  worse  of  you  if  you  don't.  He'll  have  common- 
sense  enough  for  that,  be  sure  of  it." 

Helen  could  not  forbear  a  wan  smile  at  this 
thrust.  As  for  Littleton,  he  laughed  outright.  And 
the  laugh  relieved  the  tension. 

"  You  speak  like  a  payan,  mother,"  said  Helen. 
"Or  a  sound  New  Eiiglandcr,"  retorted  Little- 
ton. "  And  I'm  much  of  your  mother's  opinion,  my 
dear." 


S40     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  And  you  both  laugh  at  me,"  she  said,  with  a 
trembling  lip.  "  You  both  make  light  of  that  which 
I  value  most,  my  intellectual  integrity." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Littleton,  "there  really 
isn't  such  a  thing,  in  your  sense  of  the  word.  The 
finest  mind  in  the  world  is  a  composite  of  truth  and 
error.  And  to  live  together  at  all  we  have  to  com- 
promise on  other  people's  errors  because  we  have 
so  many  of  our  own." 

"That's  right,"  said  her  mother,  "you  reason 
with  her.  I'm  only  a  pagan,  you  know — and  I  must 
admit  a  very  tired  pagan  just  now.  I'm  going  to 
lie  down  and  think  things  over  quietly." 

And  she  left  the  room,  with  a  glance  of  half- 
humourous  scorn,  perfectly  at  poise,  perfectly  as- 
sured that  all  her  daughter's  trouble  was  but  a  storm 
in  a  teacup.  Verily  there  are  great  advantages  in 
provincialism. 

But  in  this  she  erred,  as  Dr.  Littleton  well  knew. 
It  was  no  storm  in  a  teacup  with  which  he  had 
to  deal.  It  was  a  very  grave  question  of  two  human 
'destinies,  complicated  not  only  by  matters  of  faith, 
but  by  much  deeper  problems  of  temperament. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  very  poor  kind  of  ambassa- 
dor," he  remarked,  in  a  grave  and  gentle  voice, 
"  and  I've  already  damaged  my  case,  haven't  I  ?  " 

"  You  laughed  at  me,"  Helen  answered. 

"No,  not  at  you — God  forbid,  my  child.  I 


HELEN'S  CASE  341 

laughed  at  your  mother's  way  of  putting  things,  that 
is  all.  But,  do  you  know,  I  really  agree  with  your 
mother." 

"  Then  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said,"  she  an- 
swered, in  a  dreary  voice. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  there's  a  great  deal  more  to  be 

said,  and  you  must  let  me  try  to  say  it.  I  don't  agree 
with  Francis — ^you  know  that,  and  he  knows  it,  too. 
But  after  I  left  him  1  began  to  think  over  the  whole 
scene,  and  I  saw  that,  however  mistaken  he  might 
be,  he  was  doing  a  really  heroic  thing." 

"I  cannot  call  gratuitous  folly  heroic,"  she 
interrupted. 

"  Most  of  the  heroism  of  the  world  has  appeared 
gratuitous  folly  to  the  immediate  onlookers,"  he 
replied;  "  so  we  will  not  dispute  over  terms.  Now 
suppose  I  put  it  to  you  like  this.  Suppose  you  and 
Francis  lived  in  Russia,  honoured  and  esteemed  by 
all  sorts  of  pleasant  people,  and  Francis  had  sud- 
denly become  involved  in  the  maelstrom  of  the 
revolutionary  movement.  He  comes  to  you  some 
night  and  tells  you  that  he  can  no  longer  live  the 
pleasant  life  you  have  both  loved;  that  he  has 
had  a  vision  of  justice,  which  demands  from  him 
the  supreme  sacrifice;  that  he  must  leave  all.  and 
follow  that  vision,  even  though  it  leads  him  to  the 
prison  or  the  scaffold.  And  suppose  you  did  not 
agree  with  him  in  any  one  of  his  conclusions;  would 


242     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

you  still  claim  your  right  to  go  on  living  the  old 
pleasant  life  at  the  expense  of  his  spirit?  Would 
you  bid  him  kill  his  soul,  by  crushing  out  all  these 
noble  instincts  of  justice  which  had  vitalised  it, 
simply  because  you  did  not  share  them  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  proposed  such  a  thing  to  Francis," 
she  replied. 

"  Not  in  so  many  words,  my  dear,  but  tacitly, 
when  you  left  him  because  your  views  were  not 
his  views.  The  night  you  left  him,  you  asked  him 
to  kill  his  soul  for  your  sake." 

She  was  silent.  , 

"But  let  me  finish  my  parable,"  he  continued. 
"  Here  is  Francis  telling  you  of  a  supreme  sacrifice 
which  he  must  make.  Wouldn't  you,  even  though 
you  could  comprehend  neither  his  aims  nor  his  rea- 
sons, at  least  recognise  his  heroism?  And  wouldn't 
his  heroism  call  forth  heroism  in  you — make  you 
ready  to  say :  *  I  think  you  wrong,  but  I  do  dimly 
see  something  noble,  something  splendidly  heroic 
in  what  you  mean  to  do.  Therefore,  I  elect  to  go 
with  you,  though  it  is  by  a  way  I  know  not.  If  you 
can  die  for  a  vision,  I  can  die  for  you.'  Wouldn't 
you  have  said  that,  my  child  ?  " 

"  No,  I  could  not — I  would  not." 

"  Multitudes  of  women  have,  my  child." 

"  Multitudes  ot  ignorant  women,  perhaps." 

"  No;  multitudes  of  good  women.   Their  igno- 


HELEN'S  CASE 


243 


ranee  or  wisdom  had  no  influence  on  their  action. 
They  simply  rose  into  heroism  because  they  were 
good,  because  they  loved;  and  their  heroism  was 
all  the  more  wonderful  because  it  did  not  rest  on 
reason." 

"  Then  I  am  neither  good  nor  heroic,"  she  replied 
bitterly.    "  I  must  be  content  to  be  merely  honest." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  stood  facing  Dr. 
Littleton.  Her  face  was  pale;  her  hands  were 
clasped  behind  her  back;  the  slight  figure  was  tense 
and  straight.  The  glow  of  the  setting  sun  shone 
round  her,  edging  her  with  rose-flame. 

**  It  is  no  good,  Dr.  Littleton.  I  am  not  such  a 
woman  as  you  describe.  I  cannot  be.  I  cannot  act 
with  wilful  unreason.  You  make  me  wish  that  I 
could.  But  we  all  of  us  have  limits  set  by  our 
own  natures,  limits  that  we  cannot  overpass,  or 
overpass  at  our  peril.  If  I  acted  as  you  suggest  I 
should  lose  my  own  self-respect,  and  without  that 
I  think  I  could  not  live  at  all.  You  say  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  intellectual  integrity.  Perhaps  not 
in  the  sense  you  mean.  But  there's  another  sense 
in  which  it  exists  clearly  enough.  It  means  for  me 
following  the  truth  so  far  as  I  know  it,  and  iiot 
one  step  further ;  allowing  no  bribe,  no  seduction,  to 
deflect  me  from  the  path  of  truth  as  I  see  it;  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  nothing  so  much  worth 
living  for  as  that.  I  know,  at  all  events,  that  I  could 


244     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

not  consent  to  live  on  any  other  terms.  You  speak  as 
if  my  love  for  Francis  was  not  strong  enough  to 
endure  sacrifice  for  his  sake.  Don't  you  see  that 
it  is  just  because  my  love  is  so  strong  that  I  can- 
not bear  the  spectacle  of  what  seems  to  me  folly 
in  him;  that  I  am  sacrificing  myself,  really  and 
truly,  when  I  accept  a  desolate  life  for  myself, 
rather  than  allow  his  image  to  be  slowly  ruined 
in  my  eyes,  by  the  daily  spectacle  of  things  in  him 
which  might  turn  my  love  to  scorn?  No,  I  prefer 
to  keep  his  image  radiant  in  my  heart,  and  this  I 
can  only  do  by  living  in  the  memory  of  what  has 
been,  by  avoiding  the  spectacle  of  what  is." 

She  paused,  as  if  some  more  difficult  word  waited 
to  be  uttered.  It  did  not  come.  The  deepest  thing 
is  always  the  unsaid  thing.  Yet  the  word  might 
be  guessed;  it  shone  in  her  eyes,  it  pulsed  in  her 
trembling  breast,  it  fluttered  on  her  wan  pitiful  lips 
— "  I  love  him— I  shall  always  love  him." 

Dr.  Littleton  turned  his  head  away,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  a  whole  sea  of  silence  rushed  in  between 
them.  "  Poor  mortal,  clinging  to  thy  tiny  bit  of 
anchorage  in  the  infinite,  who  shall  help  thee?  "  was 
his  thought. 

When  she  spoke  again  she  had  recovered  her 
habitual  calm. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  will  promise  you,"  sKe 
said.    "I  will  try  to  understand.    And  if  I  can 


HELEN'S  CASE  245 


bring  myself  to  think  as  Francis  thinks,  I  will  go 
back  to  him  upon  the  instant.  That  is  the  most  that 
I  can  say.  You  may  tell  him  that." 

She  left  the  room,  with  a  backward  glance  at 
the  old  Doctor. 

"  Alas!  I  have  done  no  good,"  the  Doctor  mur- 
mured. 

He  rose  wearily,  and  gazed  out  into  the  sunset 
glow.  A  word  of  hers  came  back  to  him  with  singu- 
lar force — she  had  said  that  her  mother  spoke  like 
a  pagan,  because  her  mother  had  avowed  her  lack 
of  interest  in  spectilative  truth.  And  he  asked  him- 
self whether,  after  all,  her  mother's  attitude  was 
not  the  only  sane  and  sensible  attitude  ?  The  pagan 
at  least  had  the  wisdom  to  leave  religious  mysteries 
to  the  priest,  to  be  content  with  a  simple  rule  of 
conduct  for  himself,  and  to  let  the  philosopher  de- 
fine conduct.  And  the  result  had  been  a  certain 
child-like  liberty  of  life,  a  power  of  joy  in  the  com- 
mon day,  which  reflected  itself  in  all  Greek  litera- 
ture. Was  it  not  better  so?  And  then  had  come 
the  Nazarene,  casting  the  shadow  of  His  Cross 
across  all  the  world,  forcing  upon  common  men 
and  women  the  great  problems  of  religion  whicli  not 
one  mind  in  a  million  was  fitted  to  grasp  or  com- 
prehend, and  the  result  had  been  age-long  strife, 
variance,  and  misunderstanding.  What  had  he 
himself  gained  by  a  lifetime  devoted  to  the  study 


346     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

of  religion?  He  had  spent  laborious  days  in  the 
pursuit  of  phantoms  of  the  mind,  and  had  come  to 
old  age  without  the  leisure  to  enjoy  life  for  itself, 
and  at  last  without  the  inclination.  A  plain  con- 
vention of  social  honesty,  kindness,  and  good  faith 
— that  was  all  that  most  people  needed,  all  that  any 
man  ought  to  ask,  and  the  less  a  man  troubled  him- 
self about  truth  the  happier  would  he  be.  And  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  story  of  Francis  and  Helen 
was  a  brief  epitome  of  the  story  of  the  ages;  men 
and  women  forever  perplexing  themselves  over 
problems  which  the  ordinary  human  mind  was  un- 
able to  comprehend,  upon  which  complete  harmony 
of  interpretation  was  always  impossible,  while  life 
itself,  with  all  its  available  happiness,  ran  past  their 
feet  like  a  f  i- "gotten  stream  of  joy,  at  which  they 
never  stooped  to  drink.  What  madness  to  be  for- 
ever bartering  the  attainable  for  the  unattainable, 
the  certain  for  the  uncertain !  Ah,  it  was  a  terrible 
moment  for  the  world  when  Christ  entered  it,  and 
all  that  He  had  done  for  men  was  dearly  purchased 
at  the  price  of  that  Sword  of  Strife  which  He 
Himself  had  said  was  His  sign  and  His  bequest. 

And  yet,  even  while  he  pursued  these  d  g  and 
unusual  thoughts,  the  old  man  knew  that  if  anotlier 
had  suggested  them,  he  would  have  veheiuently  re- 
pudiated them.  He  knew  that  no  power  could 
recover  the  pagan  attitude  toward  life;  that  every 


HELEN'S  CASE 


Xt 


man  who  had  tried  to  do  so  had  failed :  that  it  ^< 
departed  forever  as  completely  as  the  sunset  colour, 

whi  h  was  even  now  fading  from  the  western  sky. 
The  Nazarene  had  once  and  for  all  settled  the  trend 
of  life.  It  was  impossible  to  consider  life  at  all,  at 
any  point,  for  a  single  moment,  without  collision 
with  Him.  He  was  inevitable  as  the  atmosphere 
itself.  And  because  this  was  so,  he  perceived  that 
the  strange  conduct  of  Francis  West  might,  after 
all,  have  a  basis  in  fact.  At  all  events  he  could 
not  any  longer  label  it  a  wild  delusion.  Like  Helen, 
he  also  must  try  to  understand.  For  him,  as  for 
her,  it  was  the  one  hope  of  final  peace. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Parke  entered. 

"  Well,  Doctor,"  she  said  cheerfully,  "  have  you 
succeeded  in  bringing  Helen  to  reason  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  reason,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
think  she  has  reached  a  point  where  she  is  willing 
to  learn." 

"  Learn  what,  pray  ?  " 

*'  Learn  to  accept  truth  in  whatever  strange  guise 

it  may  come." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  she  is  going  back  to 

Francis?  " 

"  Not  yet.  And  if  you  will  be  advised  by  me  you 
won't  press  her  to  do  so.  You  and  I  can  do  noth- 
ing to  help  her,  much  to  hinder  her.  If  she  goes 
back,  it  will  be  by  her  own  way." 


a48     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  Well.  I'm  sure  I  don't  »vish  to  be  harsh  with 
her,  though  I  think  her  ronduct  rkl?culr  ^  Of 
course  she  can  stay  here  as  loiu  >  '^^es, 
thoiiiib  I  hope  for  everybody's  sane  it  wtm't  be 
iong." 

"  It  W(        <•  long.     ■  i\\,\k  " 
A  sudden  apprc  cnsu  ,i  luii     ned        e  d  le- 
blue  eyes. 

"  \\  ly  <  I)  you  siieak  in  <nat  t.  ne?"  s.ie  sa' 
"  Because  the  poor  child  is  vvt  n  otit.       ■  \ 
is  breaking  her  heart.    An''    le  ;   not       whu  e 
covers  from  that  kind    *'  v  pidl 
"  You  don't  think  si      ill,''  u'" 
"  N'  *  ill.  only  I   "irt  iu       irt  is  not 

i  ealcd    >on,  .  shoi      fear  1      i^r  le  is  the 

kind  of  woman  wt  ih'v^\<-  -lit-  can  ve  wvithout 
love,  and  she  isn't.  For  t  matt<^r.  never  knew 
the  woman  who  could. ' 


XIV 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL 

EW  YORK,  in  spite  of  aU  its  imperturba- 


ble vivacity,  its  'nilliant  worldliness,  was 


^  touched  at  last  "■  or  ■  could  be  no  doubt 
of  it.  ''he  sliadow  of  Etemiiy  had  fallen  over  the 
grea  city. 

In  Tiany  parts  of  Ae  city  fa«ifawss  was  almost 
suspended.  In  Wall  Street  tteif  «  strange  s9ence 
rt^  cd.  It  was  in  vaet  tiiat  the  great  kings  of 
fis.  endeavoured  w  stimulate  the  stagnant 
mai  'rices  still  sank,  and  the  most  wonderful 
tha^  hat  no  one  seemed  to  care.  One  glimpse 
of  E-  had  madt  everything  else  seem  trival. 

For  Who  could  be  eager  to  lay  up  treasure  upon 
earth  when  perhaps  the  very  days  of  the  eartU 
itself  w«re  numbered? 

And  at  last  the  Church  had  spoken;  this  was 
the  sensa^i  of  the  hour. 

A  few  <feiys  after  the  great  service  in  West's 
church  a  general  meeting  of  all  the  ministe 
religion  in  New  York  had  been  called. 


350     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


11 


ii 
if 


will ' 


i 


ill 

It' 


meeting  both  Dr.  Field  and  Stockmar  were  invited 
to  make  a  statement. 

No  more  impressive  gathering  had  ever  been  seen 
in  the  great  city.  It  included  the  representatives  of 
all  the  forms  of  the  Christian  faith.  Most  notable 
of  all  its  members  was  the  Roman  Cardinal.  Born 
of  lowly  people,  Cardinal  Livingstone  had  by  sheer 
genius,  scholarship,  and  practical  ability,  risen  while 
yet  a  comparatively  young  man  to  the  highest  posi- 
tion which  the  Church  had  to  offer  him.  He  had 
become  a  Prince  of  the  Roman  Church  without 
losing  his  humility,  and  was  noted  fa;  and  wide 
for  his  incessant  activity  in  the  social  service  of  the 
people.  Without  being  in  any  sense  an  obscurantist, 
he  had  nevertheless  been  the  firm  opponent  of  the 
new  liberal  movement  which  went  by  the  name  of 
Modernism.  Yet  he  had  enough  illumination  to  per- 
ceive that  Modernism  was  a  sincere  effort  to  free 
religion  from  much  that  was  stultifying  in  tradition. 
But  he  also  perceived  that  to  ordinary  men  Modem- 
ism  was  a  grave  peril,  because  the  ordinary  mind 
was  not  trained  to  comprehend  its  issues,  and  was 
unable  to  discriminate  between  what  was  true  and 
false  in  its  teachings.  Had  he  been  called  upon  to 
define  his  real  position,  he  would  probably  have  said 
that  it  was  the  duty  of  private  intellect  to  disclaim 
its  own  right  of  liberty  for  the  public  good;  that  it 
was  not  enough  to  prove  a  conclusion  true,  it  must 


litfifl 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL  251 


also  be  proved  useful  to  the  mass  of  men,  before  it 
was  given  to  the  world;  that  all  truth  was  to  be 
judged  at  the  tribunal  of  public  exigency. 

There  had  been  a  period  in  his  own  life,  of  which 
only  a  very  few  intimate  friends  were  aware,  when 
he  had  been  sorely  tempted  to  revolt  against  tradi- 
tionalism. What  had  saved  him?  Simply  his  in- 
cessant contact  with  people  of  inferior  intellect.  He 
had  found  relief  from  his  own  mental  unrest  in  in- 
cessant toils  for  the  social  good  of  the  common  peo- 
ple. And  the  more  heavily  the  social  problems  of 
the  day  pressed  upon  his  heart,  the  less  important 
appeared  any  private  conclusions  which  he  might 
hold  on  questions  of  theology.  His  war  was  against 
greed,  dirt,  ignorance,  and  sin;  to  secure  justice  for 
the  poor  was  the  supreme  aim  of  his  life;  and  the 
more  he  learned  of  the  poor  the  more  sympathetic 
he  became  to  the  limits  of  their  intelligence.  What 
good  could  he  do  by  unsettling  their  simple  thoughts 
about  religion?  He  might  impart  truth,  but  it 
would  be  at  the  expense  of  their  religious  instincts. 
He  preferred  therefore  to  nourish  their  dim  in- 
stincts of  piety,  even  though  it  involved  a  tacit  as- 
sent to  their  superstitions.  Thus  it  had  happened 
that,  as  he  grew  older,  he  had  more  and  more  re- 
turned to  his  first  faith,  and  his  doubts  about  doc- 
trine had  been  dissolved  in  the  flame  of  his  ardent 
spirit  of  social  service. 


25a     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

In  person  he  was  tall  and  spare.  He  was  ascetic 
by  temperament,  as  well  as  by  the  conditions  of  his 
life,  which  made  any  form  of  self-indulgence  im- 
possible. It  was  commonly  reported  that  his  work- 
ing day  was  rarely  less  than  sixteen  hours;  it  was 
certainly  true  that  he  rarely  slept  for  more  than  five 
hours,  that  his  food  was  of  the  simplest,  and  that  he 
was  capable  of  a  prolonged  activity  which  was  the 
astonishment  of  his  friends  and  the  despair  of  his 
secretaries.  His  face  would  have  attracted  atten- 
tion anywhere.  It  was  long  and  thin,  yet  with  a 
perfect  beauty  of  line;  the  forehead  was  high,  nar- 
row, and  deeply  lined;  the  mouth  sweet  and  firm, 
the  eyes  deep-set  and  of  a  peculiar  depth  of  colour, 
which  might  be  best  described  as  blue-black.  Such 
was  the  man  who  now  entered  the  hall  where  the 
ministers  of  New  York  were  assembled,  a  man 
whose  natural  primacy  not  even  the  most  robust 
Protestant  among  them  would  have  thought  of 
disputing. 

There  was  a  buzz  of  interest,  succeeded  by  a  deep 
silence,  as  the  Cardinal  took  his  place  on  the  small 
dais  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  He  rose  at  once,  and 
began  to  speak  in  a  clear,  low  voice. 

His  address  was  brief,  but  it  admirably  summed 
up  the  situation.  He  bega'»  •  .  saying  that  the 
presence  in  that  hall  of  repn  -  stives  of  all  forms 
of  the  Christian  faith  was  in  itself  an  evidence  of 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL  253 


the  supreme  emergency  which  had  arisen.  So  far 
as  his  own  communion  went,  the  hope  and  belief 
of  the  second  coming  of  the  Master  had  never  been 
ignored.  There  were  many  authentic  instances  in 
the  lives  of  the  saints  of  the  appearance  of  Christ 
to  individuals,  and  although  all  might  not  admit 
the  evidence,  yet  to  him  it  was  incontrovertible. 
But  whether  they  admitted  it  or  not,  no  student  of 
the  history  of  the  Church  universal  could  doubt  that 
the  hope  of  the  Master's  coming  was  an  essential 
feature  of  the  Christian  religion.  It  would  now 
appear,  from  such  knowledge  as  they  possessed, 
that  there  had  been  certain  manifestations  of  the 
Master  vouchsafed  to  certain  persons  in  their  own 
midst.  Their  first  duty  was  to  receive  the  state- 
ments of  these  individuals  with  an  open  mind.  It 
was  their  duty,  as  the  representatives  of  religion, 
to  take  some  action  which  should  allay  or  direct  the 
agitation  of  the  public  mind.  For  there  could  be  no 
doubt  that  the  public  mind  was  agitated  in  an  im- 
precedented  degree,  and  not  in  New  York  alone, 
but  throughout  the  entire  world.  The  Church  had 
too  long  been  silent  upon  this  grave  matter,  and  the 
silence  had  been  misinterpreted.  This  silence  could 
no  longer  be  maintained,  and  for  his  part,  he  was 
ready  to  say,  as  he  had  no  doubt  all  present  would 
say,  that  he  was  willing  to  be  guided  in  his  judg- 
ment by  a  8i»rit  of  humility. 


254     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"Let  us  lay  aside  all  personal  prejudices,"  he 
concluded,  "  as  we  here,  for  the  time,  lay  aside  all 
differences  of  administration.  The  world  hangs 
upon  the  precipice  of  a  great  delusion,  or  it  stands 
upon  the  threshold  of  a  vast  discovery.  Let  us  ask 
guidance  of  God  that  we  may  discern  truth  from 
error." 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  the  whole  assembly  fol- 
lowed his  example.  And  then,  in  that  intense  si- 
lence, there  rose  the  thin,  quavering  voice  of  the 
oldest  Protestant  bishop  in  New  York.  Guided  by 

some  exquisite  instinct  he  used  a  form  of  prayer 
which  bound  together  the  long  separated  Roman 
and  Protestant  communions — words  dear  to  each, 
words  historically  the  possession  of  each,  words 
which  drew  the  ages  themselves  together  in  a  com- 
mon faith;  first,  the  great  prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom 
that  God  would  grant  them  in  this  world  the  knowl- 
edge of  His  truth,  and  in  the  world  to  come  eternal 
life;  and  then  the  immortal  prayer  uttered  over  a 
million  graves :  "  Thou  knowest,  O  Lord,  the  secrets 
of  our  hearts;  shut  not  Thy  merciful  ears  to  our 
prayer,  but  spare  us,  O  Lord  most  holy,  O  God 
most  mighty,  O  holy  and  merciful  Saviour,  Thou 
most  worthy  Judge  eternal,  suffer  us  not  at  our  last 
hour  for  any  pains  of  death  to  fall  from  Thee." 

And  it  seemed  as  though  the  grave  itself  were 
vanquished  in  that  prayer — ^the  grave  and  death; 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL  ass 


so  that  death  became  unthinkable,  life  an  inex- 
tinguishable reality;  and  the  Presence  who  broke 
down  the  doors  of  death  and  the  grave,  ineffably 
real.  It  was  as  though  the  dim  ghosts  of  a  thou- 
sand generations  were  leagued  in  and  round  the 
silent  hall;  the  air  was  winnowed  with  the  beat  of 
unseen  wings,  the  soft  tread  of  multitudinous  feet: 
and  all  the  long  agony  of  the  human  race  in  its 
revolt  against  death,  all  the  sighs  and  prayers  and 
onward-locking  thoughts  of  the  centuries  found  a 
voice,  protesting,  poignant,  infinitely  pathetic. 

The  prayer  ended,  and  the  assemblage  settled  to 
the  business  of  the  hour.  First  of  all  Stockmar 
spoke,  giving  his  plain  statement  in  much  the  same 
form  which  he  had  already  used  in  his  conversa- 
tions with  Field.  Field  followed,  with  an  assertion 
of  his  faith  in  Stockmar's  narrative. 

"  I  seek  to  prove  nothing,"  he  said;  "  I  ofler  no 
argtmient.  I  am  prepared  only  to  make  two  state- 
ments, for  which  I  can  offer  only  the  guarantee  of 
my  own  integrity  and  experience.  The  first  is  that 
there  is  nothing  in  science,  so  far  as  I  understand  it, 
to  render  the  narrative  of  Rudolf  Stockmar  in- 
credible. The  second  is  that  I  pledge  any  reputa- 
tion which  I  may  possess  for  the  complete  sanity 
of  Stockmar.  Long  ago  a  great  apostle,  standing 
in  the  presence  of  a  pagan  ruler,  asked  '  Why  should 
it  be  thought  a  thing  incredible  that  God  ^ould 


2S6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

raise  the  dead  ? '  A  similar  question  may  be  asked 
this  morning,  but  with  a  deeper  emphasis,  bom  out 
of  centuries  of  faith,  *  Why  should  it  be  thought  a 
thing  incredible  that  One  already  raised  from  the 
dead  should  make  Himself  known  to  the  living?' 
My  answer,  not  as  a  Christian  apologist,  to  which 
character  I  have  little  claim,  but  merely  as  a  man 
of  science,  engaged  in  the  investigation  of  truth, 
is  that  I  know  no  reason  for  the  rejection  of  Stock- 
mar's  story,  except  such  as  may  be  found  in  the  ob- 
stinate prejudice  of  the  human  mind.  I  therefore 
endorse  the  Cardinal's  appeal  for  an  open  mind, 
and  for  that  spirit  of  humility  which  is  the  first  con- 
diticm  of  any  successful  quest  of  truth.  We  who  are 
engaged  in  scientific  research  know  well  that  we 
must  be  prepared  for  constant  contradictions  of  our 
own  most  settled  theories;  Nature  surrenders  her 
secrets  only  to  the  humble.  We  are  guided  by  one 
law  alone :  to  examine  all  things,  to  reject  nothing, 
to  be  surprised  at  nothing,  to  be  guided  by  nothing 
but  the  weight  of  evidence.  I  submit  that  this  is 
the  spirit  which  should  animate  each  one  of  us  this 
*  morning.  In  patience  and  humility  alone  can  we 
hope  to  find  the  path  of  wisdom." 

This  speech  produced,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, a  profound  impression.  The  reputation  of 
the  great  surgeon  was  known  to  all,  and  there  is  al- 
ways a  tendency  among  ministers  to  listen  with  un- 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL 


357 


usual  deference  to  the  man  of  science  when  he 

speaks  on  matters  of  religion.  Nevertheless  Field's 
speech  had  thf.  effect  of  changing  the  entire  atmos- 
phere. T  fit  of  solemn  awe  was  relaxed.  The 
ghosts  of  ii  Jead  centuries  drew  further  away. 
The  spirit  ot  controversy  was  aroused.  Unfortu- 
nately the  speaker  who  followed  Field  was  a  man 
named  Paterson,  an  old  minister  of  real  piety  but 
inelastic  mind,  who  never  lost  an  opportunity  of 
girding  at  his  brethren  who  professed  more  ad- 
vanced views  than  himself.  The  old  man  leapt  to  his 
feet  almost  before  Field  had  finished,  and  insisted 
on  his  right  to  speak.  There  were  loud  cries  of 
"  No,"  of  which  he  took  no  notice.  The  Cardinal 
gave  a  courteous  sign  of  assent,  and  Paterson  at  once 
began  a  vehement  tirade  against  modem  thought. 
He  dragged  in  every  possible  reference  to  the  real 
or  supposed  defections  of  faith  of  many  of  his 
brethren,  which  were  calculated  to  excite  irritation. 
How  could  men  who  didn't  believe  in  the  story  of 
Jonah  and  the  whale,  he  asked,  believe  in  the  resur- 
rection of  Christ,  who  used  the  Jonah  story  as  the 
symbol  of  His  own  resurrection?  Not  to  believe  in 
Jonah  was  not  to  believe  Christ.  One  would  have 
supposed  that  the  whole  structure  of  Christianity 
rested  on  the  whale.  After  a  time  he  was  silenced 
by  the  opposition  of  his  audience;  but  the  mischief 
was  done.   With  the  departure  of  awe  and  rever- 


a$8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

ence  there  entered  not  only  the  spirit  of  controversy, 
but  the  spirit  of  littleness.  What  was  in  reality  one 
of  the  most  solemn  conclaves  of  the  universal 
Church  became  the  debating  ground  of  rival  views 
and  fierce  antagonisms. 

The  Cardinal  watched  the  scene  with  a  face  of 
strained  pallor.  His  thoughts  were  sad  and  bitter. 
So  this  was  the  Church  of  Christ,  these  its  ministers. 
While  the  whole  world  waited  breathlessly  for  some 
word  of  wise  guidance,  these  men  found  it  possible 
to  indulge  in  recriminations,  personal  attacks,  and 
theological  animosities.  What  wonder  that  such  a 
Church  had  lost  its  power  to  rule  and  guide  the 
world  ?  Surely  the  greatest  of  all  miracles  was  that 
the  Church  of  Christ  had  survived  the  incompetence 
and  folly  of  its  own  professed  leaders. 

But  after  a  time  thoughts  at  once  more  generous 
and  more  just  took  possession  of  his  mind.  After 
all,  these  were  good  men,  who  not  merely  inculcated 
goodness  but  practised  it.  They  touched  the  ark  of 
the  Lord  with  clumsy  hands,  but  nevertheless  they 
reverenced  it.  How  often  had  he  made  the  same 
discovery  about  his  own  clergy ;  how  many  men  had 
he  known  who  had  possessed  no  gift  of  delicacy, 
men  full  of  defect,  who  did  and  said  things  that 
were  an  offence  to  the  spiritual  mind,  and  yet  were 
at  heart  sincerely  pious,  and  in  their  lives  were 
models  of  self-sacrihce.  And  he  felt  that  this  must 


THE  CARDINALS  APPEAL  259 


be  true  also  of  these  men.  He  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  with  that  commanding 
gesture  which  had  so  often  subdued  great  throngs 
of  men  who  had  sought  his  interference  in  social 
disputes. 

'*  Will  you  let  me  speak,"  he  said.  "  Not  in  my 
position  as  the  representative  of  a  Church,  but 
merely  as  a  man,  your  brother?  " 
There  was  an  instant  silence  of  assoit 
"  There  comes  to  me,"  he  said,  "  with  singular 
vividness,  the  recollection  of  an  experience  which 
happened  to  me  many  years  ago,  which  I  should  like 
to  relate.  I  was  a  young  man  at  the  time,  full  of  the 
pride  of  strength  and  intellect,  by  turns  a  lover  of 
the  world  and  a  critic  of  its  life,  in  which  I  had 
already  found  much  that  was  distasteful  and  repug- 
nant. Already  my  vocation  was  decided :  I  was  to 
enter  the  priesthood;  but  the  nearer  the  day  of  my 
vows  came,  the  more  I  shrank  from  assuming  them. 
I  was  in  great  distress  of  mind,  for  nothing  was 
clear  to  me  except  my  own  disinclination  to  enter 
on  the  work  for  which  my  whole  life  had  been  a 
preparation,  and  I  was  aware  that  the  root  of  this 
disinclination  lay  in  the  unsettlement  of  my  own 
faith.  It  pleases  God  to  allow  such  darkness  at 
times  to  rest  upon  the  so  -  that  the  hunger  for 
light  may  be  quickened.  So  I  interpret  the  matter 
now,  but  at  the  time  it  seemed  as  if  God  had  quite 


26o     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


forsaken  me.  From  my  confessors  and  advisers  I 
got  little  help,  for  they  were  unable  to  comprehend 
the  condition  of  my  mind.  At  last,  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  it  might  be  of  service  to  me  if  I 
did  what  holy  men  in  all  ages  have  done,  made  my 
pilgrimage  to  those  scenes  hallowed  by  the  earthly 
life  of  the  Redeemer.  I  went  to  the  Holy  Land. 
I  travelled  on  foot  along  the  very  roads  that  Christ 
had  trodden,  I  looked  upon  the  hills,  still  unchanged, 
that  He  had  crossed,  I  sailed  upon  the  lake  He  loved, 
I  sat  beside  the  well  of  which  He  drank:  all  the 
time,  in  each  sacred  scene,  trying  to  arouse  my  mind 
by  the  poignant  memories  it  suggested.  Sometimes 
my  mind  responded,  more  often  it  remained  dull 
and  hard,  and  in  this  mootl  I  came  at  last  to  Jeru- 
salem. '  Here,'  thought  I,  '  at  the  very  altar  of  the 
faith,  the  miracle  must  happen;  the  stones  must 
speak  of  Him,  the  very  air  retoin  His  image.'  So  I 
stood  at  the  very  spot  where  He  stood  when  He 
wept  over  Jerusalem,  and  saw  the  sunset  burn  upon 
the  white  walls  of  the  city,  and  came  down  the  hill 
as  the  moon  rose,  and  knelt  beside  the  olive  ganU  n 
of  Gethsemane,  but  my  heart  remained  unmoved  I 
pictured  to  myselfl  each  scene  with  all  the  imagina- 
tion I  could  c<nnmand;  I  stood  where  the  Cross  had 
rested,  and  before  the  tomb  itself;  but  no  darkness 
veiled  the  sky,  no  shining  Figure  moved  amid  the 
shadows  of  the  garden;  the  sun  shone  insolently  on 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL 


361 


each  sacrefl  place,  and  the  people  came  and  went, 
but  He  came  not.  My  pilgrimage  was  a  failure.  I 
said  with  Mary,  '  They  have  taken  away  my  Lord, 
and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  Him.'  Anguish 
filled  my  heart.  As  the  shores  of  Palestine  faded 
from  my  eyes,  I  felt  that  I  would  gladly  have  died 
could  I  but  have  seen  Jesus  for  one  instant  walking 
on  the  sea;  ah,  how  gladly  would  I  have  flung  myself 
into  the  sea,  if  I  could  have  been  sure  that  His  eyes 
would  have  looked  pitifully  on  me,  as  the  waves 
closed  over  me." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  a  sigh  of  sympathy 
arose  from  his  hearers. 

"  I  came  back  to  London,"  he  continued.  "  Dur- 
ing all  those  weary  days  and  nights  of  travel  one 
thought  haunted  me — the  thought  that  if  Christ 
really  existed  He  could  not  leave  me  without  a  sign. 
I  seemed  to  be  travelling  from  Him;  but  some 
inner  voice  began  to  assure  me  that  in  reality  I  was 
travelling  toward  Him.  That  inner  voice  was  but  a 
whisper,  the  merest  thread  of  sound  in  the  forlorn 
abysses  of  my  soul,  but  it  never  left  me,  and  as  I 
drew  nearer  England  it  became  more  positive.  I 
landed  as  the  grey  evening  was  closing  over  the 
grey  citv  It  was  late  at  night  when  I  came  up  the 
li)ng,  dull  street,  where  v,as  the  house  of  a  friend,  in 
which  I  meant  to  spend  the  night.  As  I  drew  near 
the  liuusc  I  saw  a  spent  and  ragged  figure  leaning 


262     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


against  the  iron  railings  of  the  house.  I  passtnl  (lie 
figure  with  a  casual  glance,  and  stood  before  the 
door,  with  my  hand  upon  the  bell.  Some  strong 
instinct  moved  me  to  look  again  upon  the  ragged 
stranger.  He  stood  there  still,  in  an  attitude  of 
utter  weariness;  but  in  the  moment  our  eyes  met  a 
strange  alteration  passed  over  him.  He  slowly 
raised  himself  from  his  stooping'  attitude:  his  poK- 
face  seemed  to  swim  out  of  a  sea  of  f  lint  liglr  ;  he 
stretched  out  a  hand  'oword  me,  and  I  saw  that  it 
was  stained  with  blood,  i  knew  Him.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  grey  air  ran  past  Him  like  a  river 
with  a  thousand  tongues  each  whispering  His  name. 
I  felt  no  fear,  no  surprise;  only  a  sweet  awe,  that 
dissolved  my  strength,  that  wrapped  me  round  in 
folds  of  soft  flame,  ti  it  penetrated  my  cold  hv  •«  , 
meltii  J  and  subduing  it.  It  was  all  the  work  ;  . 
moment,  but  the  Miss  of  Eternity  was  in  that 
ment.  Even  while  1  gazed,  He  vaiiished  out  of  lay 
sight.  But  a  voice  remained,  and  that  voice  said  in 
a  low,  distinct  whisper, '  Inasmuch  as  ye  do  it  unto 
the  least  of  these,  My  brethren,  ye  do  it  unto  Me.* 
«  "  Why  do  I  tell  you  this  story  ?  Because  for  me 
it  was  the  revelation  that  changed  my  whole  life. 
I  had  sought  to  realise  m>  Lord  by  merely  think- 
ing about  Him;  I  ha('  endeavoured  to  conjure 
back  His  presence  by  invoking  the  memories  of  His 
earthly  life;  the  quest  had  been  vain.   But  that  day 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL  163 


I  learnt  !  the  supreme  truth  tliat  the  only  way  to 
realise  drist  is  to  do  the  kind  of  things  He  did;  it 
is  deeds  that  make  creeds,  not  creeds  that  make 
deeds.  For  thirty  years  I  have  chosen  as  my  daily 
associates  the  most  miserable  of  men;  I  have  moved 
amid  the  realities  of  hunger,  suffering,  and  mis- 
fortune; anil  my  reward  has  been  this,  tliat  in  doing 
the  kind  of  things  Clirist  did,  I  have  come  to  know 
that  He  was  with  nio — not  as  an  image  of  the  mind, 
but  as  a  Person,  imparting  to  me  daily  strength  for 
my  task,  using  my  ha  ids,  my  will,  my  heart,  for 
His  work. 

"  And  so,  to-day,  when  the  signs  of  His  presence 
in  the  world  seem  open,  when  the  whole  earth  ap- 
pears to  be  conscious  of  His  approaching  footsteps, 
I  see  but  one  duty  for  us,  His  servants.  It  is  to  do 
His  worl:,  that  we  may  meet  Him  without  shame, 
when  He  iiijiears.  Let  us  hasten  to  lift  up  the 
fallen  o  {c;;d  the  hungry,  to  clothe  the  naked,  while 
thei »  ' ■  i  time.  It  is  not  for  me  to  utter  words  of 
judgment  or  censure  on  His  Church;  but  I  do  say, 
let  us  dissolve  all  the  i&rms  of  our  eccledastical  ex- 
istence, if  needs  be,  in  so  far  as  they  are  the  <^cca- 
sions  of  sloth  or  pride;  and  let  us  set  alxjut  the 
practical  business  of  making  the  world  a  little  more 
like  that  kind  of  world  which  lie  ilesired  and  hoped 
for,  and  died  to  create.  This,  to  me,  is  the  supreme 
duty  of  the  hour." 


2«4     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

The  Cardinal  sat  down,  shaken  with  emotion,  and 
his  emotion  communicated  itself  to  the  whole  as- 
sembly. Tears  ran  down  many  faces;  sobs  were 
heard;  half-audible  prayers  arose  from  many  lips. 

But  the  fight  was  not  won.  The  thet)iogical  an- 
tagonisms of  ages  were  not  so  easily  dismissed. 
Hours  passed,  and  the  low  afternoon  sun  shone  into 
the  hall  of  debate. 

Outside  the  hall  a  vast  crowd  had  gathered. 
They  were  waiting  for  the  verdict.  For  the  people 
realised  even  more  keenly  than  the  ministers  that 
this  was  a  great  conclave  of  the  Church  universal, 
on  M'hose  word  the  world  hung. 

At  one  time  it  se'-tried  as  though  any  form  of 
common  action  was  impossible.  There  were  those, 
and  among  them  some  of  the  most  learned  pastors 
of  the  city,  who  stubbornly  refused  to  accept  the 
story  of  Stockmar  except  as  a  species  of  devout 
hallucination.  But  even  over  these  men,  at  last,  the 
gentle  influence  of  the  Cardinal  prevailed.  The 
sunset  light  faded.  Through  the  dusk  of  the  long 
room  the  faces  of  the  representatives  showed  pale 
.and  strained.  Outside  the  murmur  of  the  crowd 
rose  and  fell  like  a  sea. 

And  then  there  happened  one  of  those  inspi«-ed 
accidents,  which  in  times  of  crisis  have  so  often 
turned  the  current  of  event.  The  murmur  of  the 
waiting  crowd  became  articulate;  it  resolved  itself 


THE  CARDINAL'S  APPEAL  265 


into  a  song,  and  the  song  was  the  old  hymn  which 
had  been  sung  with  such  thrilling  effect  in  West's 
church  on  the  night  of  his  memorable  address. 

Lo,  He  comes  with  clouds  descending; 

Once  for  favoured  sinners  slain. 
Thousand  thousand  saints  attending 

Swell  the  triumph  of  his  train. 
Hallelujah! 
God  appears  on  earth  to  reign  I 

In  an  instant  the  whole  assembly  had  sprung  to 
its  feet.  It  was  as  though  the  world  had  presented 
its  demand  to  a  reluctant  Church. 

West,  who  had  hitherto  taken  no  part  in  the  de- 
bate, suddenly  sprang  forward.  He  stood  with  up- 
lifted hand. 

"  Shall  the  multitude  believe,  the  Church  alone  be 
faithless? "  he  cried. 

And  from  the  great  company  the  reply  was  in- 
stantaneous. 

Lo,  He  comes  with  clouds  descending ! 

They  were  all  sinj;ing  now.  For  the  most  it  was 
a  moment  of  solemn  ecstasy,  in  which  faith  rose 
triumphant  over  every  difficulty.  One  by  one  the 
dissentients  left  the  hall.  They  went  out  slowly,  as 
if  battling  against  a  strong  tide  which  they  could 
not  conquer. 

"*And  he  went  out  immediately,  and  it  was 
night,' "  said  some  one,  in  a  voice  of  horror. 


266     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  Nay,  my  brethren,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "  let  m 
not  blame  them.  It  is  not  Judas  who  goes  out- 
only  Thomas  called  EMdymus.   It  may  be  that  their 

hour  will  come,  as  it  came  to  Thomas." 

It  was  the  last  word  of  that  tiiemorable  debate. 
A  few  minutes  later  the  assembly  passed  in  silence, 
and  with  bowed  heads,  a  solemn  resolution.  The 
resolution  affirmed,  that  the  assembly  accepted  the 
story  of  Stockmar  as  substantially  true;  it  called 
upon  the  Church  to  give  itself  to  faith  and  good 
works,  and  especially  to  its  great  duty  of  social 
charity;  and  it  proposed  a  week  of  prayer  and  hu- 
miliation for  all  the  churches,  that  the  Church 
mi{,'ht  be  prepared  to  meet  its  Lord. 

The  last  word  of  the  Cardinal  was  one  that  was 
never  forgotten. 

"  And  let  us,"  he  said,  "  the  priests  and  teachers 
of  religion,  be  the  first  to  practise  the  humiliation  we 
inculcate  upon  others." 


XV 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM 

THE  snow  lay  deep  upon  Ni  w  York.  Day 
after  day  grey,  greasy  clouds  rolled  up 
from  the  northwest,  discharging  their  bur- 
den on  the  city,  and  Berce  gales  blew,  and  crippled 
ships,  ice-^eathed,  and  battered  by  tremendous 
seas,  crept  into  harbour.  When  the  snow  ceased, 
the  merciless  stricture  of  the  frost  fell  on  the  city. 
In  the  northern  sky  banners  of  streaming  Hame 
flowed  across  the  icy-pointed  stars;  flowed  and 
ebbed,  and  seemed  to  break  into  a  spray  of  fire. 
And  from  the  distant  forests  of  the  north  came 
strange  stories,  begotten  of  these  midnight  splen- 
dours, and  shaped  the  universal  hope  and  fear; 
stories  of  a  host  seen  marching  through  the  ^y, 
of  the  trampling  of  innunKrable  armies,  and  the 
noise  of  chariots  and  men  on  white  horses  who  rode 
ami^ng  the  stars. 

Among  the  nations,  to<i.  there  were  signs  and 
jKirtents,  and  wars  and  rumours  of  wars.  In  FratKe 
the  last  blow  had  fallen  on  the  Church,  ami  the 
teaching  of  the  Christian  religion  was  prohibknl  by 

■6? 


268     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

law.  In  Austria  the  Emperor  was  dead,  and  the 
armies  of  Europe  were  like  dogs,  straining  on  the 
leash,  eager  to  spring  upon  the  prey.  In  England 
the  Socialistic  forces  had  at  last  found  leadership, 
and  wealth  sat  paralysed,  terrified  before  the  threat- 
ened storm.  In  New  York  a  fierce  anti-rent  battle 
was  raging  among  the  poor  of  the  East  Side,  and 
a  Socialistic  tribunal  sat.  dictating  terms  to  the 
alarmed  landlords.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  whole 
order  of  tht  world  was  breaking  up.  The  crash  of 
commercial  ruin  filled  the  air.  And  everywhere 
amid  the  tumult,  ran  the  whisper,  "  He  conies,  He 
comes."  It  was  as  though  the  earth  itself  shud- 
dered at  His  f(jotstep. 

To  a  world  thus  fKTturhed  came  the  voice  of  the 
Church  in  New  York  calling  for  prayer  and  humili- 
ation. 

The  call  found  an  instant  response.  In  the 
poorer  districts,  particularly,  the  churches  were 
thronged  each  evening.  These  great  meetings  re- 
sembled the  primitive  revival  meetings  of  an  earlier 
time.  The  speakers  were  often  interrupted  by  the 
sdbbings  and  loud  wailings  of  their  hearers;  people 
fell  on  their  knees  groaning,  as  if  smitten  with  a 
sudden  intolerable  p.iin;  those  who  came  to  scuff 
were  often  tlie  first  to  display  these  symptoms  of 
fear  and  anguish.  Sometimes  a  speaker,  wrought 
into  a  dreadful  ecstasy  of  vision,  would  picture  the 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM  iSg 

coming  judgment  of  the  world  in  language  so  vivid 
that  women  fainted  and  strong  men  trembled. 
Tlinusands  professed  themselves  suddenly  con- 
voru-d.  and  night  by  night  the  ministers  moved 
among  throngs  of  weeping  penitents.  But  while 
these  manifestations  were  common  in  the  poorer 
distrkts,  it  was  noticeable  that  in  the  wealthier 
churches  few  people  gathered.  In  these  churches, 
where  humiliation  was  most  needed,  there  was 
none ;  rather  a  spirit  of  disdain,  coloured  by  cold 
curiosity. 

Among  two  classes  of  people  there  was  more  than 
dis(hiin:  there  v/as  growing  anger  and  resentment. 
Mrs.  Lorimer  and  her  set  represented  one  class. 

"  The  world  has  gone  mad,"  was  her  verdict  on 
the  situation.  And  her  retort  was  an  absolutely 
reckless  plunge  into  the  wildest  forms  of  social 
pleasure.  Night  after  night  her  windows  flared 
with  light;  to  her  home,  and  a  hundred  others,  gath- 
ered a  restless  host  of  people,  eager  to  forget  fears 
they  would  not  acknowledge,  in  the  pleasures  of 
apiwtite  and  gambling,  in  every  form  of  social  ex- 
travagance and  dissipation.  Just  as  people  in 
plague-stricken  cities  have  danced  the  thought  of 
death  away,  so  these  people  defied  the  growing 
terror,  and  met  it  with  reckless  laughter. 

Far  down  in  the  underworld  of  New  York  anger 
and  resentment  reigned  also,  but  from  another 


370     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

cause.  The  saloon-keeper  found  his  trade  injured. 
The  dancing-hall  was  deserted.  And  thus  the 
Devil's  kingdom  was  disturbed,  and  a  wave  of  sullen 

wrath  submerged  it.  Mrs.  Lorinier  gave  her  ver- 
dict, when  she  said  "the  world  is  mad";  Pat  Ma- 
K)iicy.  salo()ii-keei)er  and  dance-house  proprietor, 
gave  his,  wlien  he  counted  his  lessening  gains  and 
said  grimly,  "  This  must  be  stopi)ed." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening — ^a  bitter  No> 
vember  night.  The  snow  was  piled  high  against  the 
sidewalks,  a  shrewd  wind  swept  the  streets,  and  the 
stars  shone  like  i)oints  of  ice.  In  Mrs.  Lorimer's 
house  the  card  tables  w.-re  arranged  as  usual,  but  on 
this  night,  for  a  wonder,  she  had  few  j^uests.  There 
were  two  young  girls,  beautiful  and  vain;  an  old 
millionaire,  who  had  long  professed  a  passion  for 
Mrs.  Lorimer,  and  a  young  Englishman  of  good 
family,  who  had  contrived  to  run  through  his  for- 
tune at  five-and-twenty,  and  was  now  bent  upon  re- 
trieving himself  by  judicious  matrimony. 

"  I  say,"  said  the  young  Englishman,  "  I  was 
reading  in  your  pajKirs  this  morning  that  there's 
s^nle  kind  of  fun  coming  off  lo-night  down  in  a  place 
they  call  the  Tenderloin.  Queer  sort  of  name,  isn't 
it?  Don't  know  what  it's  all  akat,  but  a  fellah  at 
the  club  said  there  would  be  stacks  of  fun.  Would 
be  rather  a  lark  to  see  it,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lorimer  gave  a  judicious  cough. 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM  aji 

"  I  had  not  heard  of  it,"  she  said.  "  It  is  not  the 
sort  of  news  in  which  we  are  interested." 

"  No,  of  course  not;  I  apologise,"  said  the  young 
man.  "  But  I  like  to  see  everything,  and  the  fellah 
at  the  club  said  he  knew  some  ladies  who  were 
going  down  in  an  auio.  Kind  of  procession,  got 
up  by  people  who  don't  go  to  church  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  Might  be  worth  a  look,  just  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing." 

The  two  girls  looked  at  one  another  and  laughed. 

"  O,  Mrs.  Lorinier."  said  one.  "  let  us  go.  It 
would  be  such  fun,  and  we'd  be  safe  enough  in  the 
auto." 

"  I'm  sure  wc  want  something  to  wake  us  up," 
said  the  other,  "  My  people  have  done  nothing  but 
go  to  church  all  the  week." 

"Yes,  do,"  cried  the  other.  "We've  plenty  of 
time  for  a  game  first,  you  know." 

"What  do  you  say?"  said  Mrs.  Lorimer,  turn- 
ing to  the  old  millionaire. 

"I  go  atiywhere  you  go,"hesaid, inhisgnnvling 
guttural  voice.  "  It  can't  be  much  worse  than  an 
election  night,  anyway." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.s.  Lorimer;  "  I'm  sure  I'm 
glad  New  York  has  spirit  enough  for  anything 
vivacious." 

The  project  was  not  at  all  to  her  mind,  but  since 
the  day  when  West  had  talked  with  her,  she  had 


A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

changed  much  and  for  the  worse.  She  no  longer 
pretended  to  take  the  faintest  interest  in  religion. 
The  conversion  of  her  brother  Payson  had  excited 
in  her  the  wildest  antipathy.  It  was  from  that  mo- 
ment that  she  dated  her  plunge  into  extravagant  ex- 
citement. She  had  but  one  formula  to  apply  to 
him,  and  West,  and  the  entire  movement  which  they 
represented—"  the  world  was  mad."  And  so  she 
cast  off  restraint,  and  in  a  spirit  of  defiance  called 
around  her  those  whose  frivolity  was  proof  against 
all  serious  thought. 

The  little  party  sat  down  to  bridge,  all  save  the 
old  millionaire,  who  promptly  fell  asleep  in  an  arm- 
chair. During  the  last  month  she  had  lost  heavily 
at  the  game,  and  with  each  loss  her  passion  for  it 
had  increased.  It  was  no  longer  the  game  she  cared 
for :  it  was  the  gain.  If  any  one  had  told  her  she 
was  a  common  ^[amhlcr,  that  she  had  made  her 
house  a  gambling  house,  that  ihere  were  half  a 
dozen  who  at  in  terror,  recollecting  the  im- 
mense K-sses  they  had  incurred  at  the  tables,  that 
these  girls  were  afraid  to  enter  her  ) souse  again; 
a  any  one  had  told  her  these  things,  she  would  no 
longer  have  taken  the  trouble  to  defend  herself. 
She  did  not  care.  She  was  even  glad  to  be  relieved 
of  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  appearances.  She 
knew  she  was  becoming  notorious,  but  even  that 
was  better  than  to  be  unnoticed.    As  for  religion, 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM  373 

never  having  known  it,  she  could  not  regret  its  loss. 

It  had  never  been  more  than  a  pretence,  and  slie 
now  repudiated  it  with  a  violence  that  was  almost 
insane. 

"  Never  darken  my  doors  again,"  she  had  said 
to  her  brother.  "And  don't  think  I'll  help  you 
when  you've  lost  all  your  money.  I'll  see  you  starve 
first." 

"  He's  bewitched  by  a  pious  face,  and  calls  it  re- 
ligion." she  had  said  to  her  friends. 

And  so  she  turned  fmni  him,  as  she  had  turmd 
from  West;  and.  vvitli  the  hajij^ard  ca^^Tt^s  -s  of  '>;i(' 
no  longer  young,  snatched  at  the  flyiu^  rob  uf 
pleasure. 

The  game  was  over  at  last.  It  was  a  dull  game, 
a  mere  makeshift  to  kill  time.  A  servant  entered, 
saying  the  auto  was  at  the  door.  In  a  few  moments 
the  patty  was  ready,  each  clothed  in  heavy  furs  to 
resist  the  bitter  cold. 

As  they  :ame  out  of  the  brilliantly  lighted  hall 
into  the  spacious  nij,dit  Mrs.  Lorimer  noticed  a  man 
standing  silent  against  the  hi-li  bank  of  snow.  He 
api)eared  to  be  unusually  tall;  he  was  thinly  clad  in 
what  seemed  a  long  robe  of  some  dark  material; 
his  hair  was  dark  and  heavy,  falling  on  the  shoul- 
ders. He  stoo<l  as  erect  and  still  as  a  statue,  his  face 
glimmering  white  in  the  icy  starshine.  A  curious 
uneasiness  seized  Mrs.  Lorimer  as  she  looked  on 


274     A  SOLDiKR  OF  THE  FUTURE 

him;  something  that  was  almost  a  shudfler.  The 
pal  face  drew  her  eyes  with  an  irresistible  attrac 
tion.  Her  first  thought  was  that  he  was  probably 
some  wandering  fanatic,  of  whom  there  were  many 
in  New  York  in  these  days.  But  this  impression 
was  at  once  corrected  by  the  calmness  of  the  man. 
He  did  not  speak;  his  white  face,  slightly  lifted, 
seemed  fixed  upon  the  stars,  which  were  reflected  in 
his  sad  and  piercing  eyes.  Yet  she  was  aware  that 
those  eyes  searched  her :  they  observed  every  detail 
of  her  costly  dress,  her  jewels,  and  the  luxurious 
auto  drawn  up  against  the  curb.  It  was  '.ith  an 
efiF<  that  she  said,  "  Uo  you  want  anything?" 
He  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  you  had  better  move  on.  You  must  not 
stand  there." 
Still  he  did  not  speak. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  she  said  angrily.  '*  You  must 
go  away.    Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  understand  everything,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I 
know  that  1  am  not  wanted." 

"  Then  go." 

•  "  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  one  who  has  no 
place  where  to  lay  his  head  ?  "  he  asked. 

For  answer  she  turned  to  the  man-servant  who 
stood  in  the  porch,  his  arms  piled  with  costly  rugs. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  telephone  the  police.  Tell 
them  to  have  the  house  watched." 


THE  DEVIL  S  KINGDOM 

She  swept  past  the  silent  figure  haughtily,  and 

stepped  into  the  auto. 

The  man  said  nothing.  He  lifted  his  hand  in 
mute  protest,  anrl  turned  away,  disappearing  in  the 

snowdriftcd  street. 

"That's  a  rum  go,"  said  the  young  Englishman. 
"  What  did  the  fellow  want?  Looked  as  if  he  was 
hungry." 

"  O,  you  can  never  tell,"  she  said,  with  a  forced 
smile.  "  I  dare  say  he  knows  well  enough  how  to 
take  care  of  himself.  I  never  give  to  beggars." 

"O,  by  Jove,  now,  that's  rather  hard,  isn't  it?" 
said  the  youth.  "  I  always  do.  Might  be  cMie  your- 
self some  day,  you  know." 

"  We'll  hope  not,"  she  said  acridly. 

"  You  can  never  tell,"  said  the  wise  youth.  "  A 
fellow  gave  me  a  dollar  once  when  I  was  stony 
broke  in  Rio.  Never  forgot  it,  you  know.  Didn't 
know  me  from  Adam,  either.  You  don't  forget  a 
thing  like  that." 

The  auto  had  started,  and  the  conversation  was 
not  continued.  The  swift  air  ben*  upon  their  faces, 
tlu'  wheels  churned  the  snow,  the  great  lij,'hted  city 
ran  past  Hke  a  ribbon  of  coloured  flame.  It  was  a 
wonderful  spectacle;  abysses  of  gloom  instantly 
traversed,  lonely  as  the  depths  of  space,  Sherman's 
golden  statue  silhouetted  for  a  moment  on  a  sky 
polished  and  glittering  as  ice,  the  vast  bulk  of  the 


MICROCOPY  RESOLUTION  TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


A    APPLIED  IfVMGE  Inc 

Rochestef.  Ne*  ^ork       14609  JSA 
(716)  482  -  0300  -  Phone 
(716)  288  -  5989  -  Fox 


276     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Plaza  lifting  itself  like  a  mountain  of  stars  into  the 
dark  air,  rivers  of  fire  running  along  the  architraves 
of  theatres  and  the  eaves  of  mighty  houses;  cars, 
brilliantly  illumined,  twisting  like  fiery  serpents  on 
the  air,  as  though  they  scorned  the  earth;  and  they 
themselves  seated  in  the  heart  of  a  strange  monster, 
that  leapt  forward  at  a  touch,  like  a  sentient  thing, 
rushed  and  leapt  and  trembled  at  a  finger's  pressure, 
and  seemed  capable  of  soaring  up  until  its  wheels 
took  a  road  of  stars,  and  found  their  liberty  in  the 
uncharted  firmament.  A  wonderful  ride,  more 
magical  than  anything  pictured  by  Arabian  dream- 
ers, and  as  they  sped  forward  its  intense  exhilara- 
tion drowned  all  other  thoughts,  especially  that 
uneasy  thought  begotten  by  the  vision  of  that  soli- 
tary man  among  the  snowdrifts,  who  had  no  place 
where  to  lay  his  head. 

The  auto  slowed  at  last.  They  had  come  upon 
a  crowded  street.  At  the  end  of  the  street  red 
lights  wavered,  and  the  clash  of  a  band  was 
heard. 

"By  Jove,  that's  the  procession  they  talked 
about,"  said  the  youth.   "  Here  they  come." 

The  auto  had  stopped  close  to  a  vast  dance-hall. 
The  doors  were  wide  open,  and  they  could  see 
within  the  lights  reflected  on  the  polished  floor  an 
immense  bar,  and  behind  it  white-clothed  men  wait- 
ing for  the  crowd. 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM  277 

Then,  at  last,  the  procession  came  into  view.  It 
was  a  SaturnaHa.  Men,  disguised  in  grotesque 
masks,  led  the  way,  blowing  with  all  their  might 
upon  discordant  horns.  A  regiment  of  women  fol- 
lowed, painted,  laughing,  dancing,  holding  hands, 
mad  with  evil  glee,  their  feathered  hats  falling, 
on  their  shoulders.  Half-intoxicated  youths  sur- 
rounded them,  shouting  ribald  jests  and  singing 
ribald  songs.  Some  carried  wands,  on  which 
bunches  of  withered  flowers  were  tied;  others  waved 
Roman  candles,  which  shot  up  fountains  of  coloured 
flame,  and  broke  in  a  thousand  sparks.  Behind  the 
revellers  clashed  the  band  in  raucous  music.  High 
over  all,  riding  on  a  black  horse,  was  the  huge  form 
of  Pat  Maloney,  carrying  a  banner.  The  banner 
was  blood-red,  and  upon  it,  in  white,  was  a  cross 
reversed.  Other  banners  followed,  each  with  some 
profane  or  blasphemous  inscription.  One  banner 
was  black,  and  its  white  lettering  read,  "  Good  Old 
Devil."  This  was  the  worst,  but  others  were  nearly 
as  bad.  A  wild  rabble  followed,  shouting  and  yell- 
ing. The  depths  of  New  York  had  spued  out  all 
their  infamy.  Everywhere  were  faces  scarred  by 
evil  passions,  stamped  with  crime,  scowling  with 
hatred  of  all  things  good  and  pure — for  this  was 
the  Devil's  Kingdom  let  lnose.  And  high  over  all 
was  the  man  on  the  black  lior.se,  with  the  cross  re- 
versed— a  man  gross,  terrible,  triumphant,  smiling 


2;8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

at  the  riot,  secure  at  least  for  one  night  in  the  cer- 
tainty of  gain. 

It  was  a  hideous  spectacle.  Mrs.  Lorimer  shud- 
dered, and  the  two  girls  hid  their  faces.  "  I  say," 
said  the  youth,  "  I  don't  like  this,  you  know.  Let 
us  go." 

But  they  could  not  go.  They  were  held  against 
the  curb  by  the  pressure  of  the  multitude.  They 

were  forced  to  observe  every  hideous  detail,  to  hear 
the  ribald  jests,  to  watch  througli  the  open  doors  of 
the  dance-hall  the  beginning  of  the  carnival. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Lorimer  ro^e  up  with  a  cry  of 
fear.  "  There  he  is  again— that  man !  "  she  shrieked. 

They  turned  at  her  cry.   Yes,  there  he  was;  the 
same  long  dark  robe,  the  same  pale  face :  but  they 
could  see  it  now.    It  had  a  singular  sad  majesty. 
The  eyes  were  full  of  reproach.    He  came  slowly 
through  the  throng,  as  though  he  felt  no  obstacle. 
No  one  spoke  to  him,  no  one  challenged  him.  But 
suddenly  the  uproar  ceased.   He  stood  a  moment  at 
the  open  doors  of  the  dance-house,  stretching  out 
his  hands  to  those  within,  in  a  gesture  that  seemed 
full  of  pity  and  appeal.  Then  he  turned  slowly,  and 
seemed  to  melt  into  the  darkness.    Mrs.  Lorimer 
had  fainted. 

■ 

Towards  the  dawn,  following  this  same  night,  in 
a  cellar  of  a  tenement  house  not  far  from  Pat  Ma- 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM  279 

loney's  dance-hall,  three  men  and  a  woman  v;ere 
huddled  in  uneasy  slumber.  The  men  were  thieves. 
One  of  them  had  spent  twenty  years  in  prison.  In 
those  twenty  years  he  had  been  flogged  till  his  flesh 
hung  in  strips:  he  had  endured  the  water  torture, 
which  means  being  handcuffed  to  a  cross,  and 
played  upon  by  a  powerful  hydrant  till  the  flesh  was 
black;  he  had  endured  two  years  of  solitary  con- 
finement in  a  dark  cell  underground,  where  he  tamed 
rats  to  save  himself  from  madness,  and  out  of 
which  he  came  nearly  blind.  He  had  been  ordered 
out  of  every  city  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice.  His 
portrait  was  in  every  police  station  in  the  galleiy  of 
dangerous  criminals.  His  comrades  were,  like  him- 
self, proscribed  men.  They  and  he  alike  had  found 
all  doors  closed  to  them;  had  starved,  tramped,  fled 
from  city  to  city,  robbed  and  stolen;  and  the  one 
passion  that  had  kept  them  alive  was  revenge,  the 
hope  of  getting  even  with  a  world  that  hated  them. 
The  woman  was  an  outcast.  She  had  that  night 
followed  the  procession:  her  tawdry  hat  lay  beside 
her  as  she  slept.  Even  Pat  Maloney  had  thought 
her  too  low  to  allow  her  entrance  to  his  dance-hall, 
from  which  she  had  been  driven  with  cruel  jests. 

She  slept  now,  tired  out,  her  head  upon  her  arm. 
The  men  drowsed  against  the  wall,  their  faces 
bowed  upon  their  knees,  huddling  their  rags  round 
them  against  the  bitter  cold. 


28o     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Suddenly  there  was  a  knocking  at  the  door.  It 
was  a  low  knock,  quiet  and  repeated. 

All  four  sat  up  in  instant  al.  -m. 

"  That's  them,"  said  one  man,  in  a  whisper.  "  Let 
them  look  out.  If  they've  come  for  me,  there  will 
be  murder." 

"  No.  it's  not  the  police,"  said  the  man  who  had 
been  twenty  years  in  pr  .son.  "  They  don't  knock 
like  that." 

One  of  the  men  struck  a  match.  Its  faint  light 
showed  four  white  faces,  each  strained  toward  the 
door. 

"  I  was  dreaming,"  said  the  woman;  "  I  dreamt  I 
was  at  home.  I  wish  I  hadn't  wakened." 
"  Hush,"  said  the  others. 

They  rose  soundlessly,  and  moved  on  stealthy 
feet  to  the  door.  The  knocking  came  again,  very 
soft  and  low. 

"  I  guess  it's  all  right,"  said  one.  "  Let  us  open 
the  door." 

They  unbarred  the  door.  On  its  threshold  stood 
a  tall  man,  clothed  in  dark  raiment,  with  dark  hair 
falling  on  his  shoulders.  His  face  was  very  pale; 
his  eyes  glittered  in  the  frosty  dawnlight.  He  held 
a  little  child  upon  hii  bosom. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  ask  nothing  more  than  shelter.  I  am  very 
tired." 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM  281 


"  Com''  in  then,  comrade,"  said  the  twenty  years' 
man.    "  I've  been  tired  myself.    You're  welcome." 

He  came  in,  leaving  the  door  open  behind  him. 
No  one  noticed  that  it  was  left  open.  The  grey 
dawnlight  catne  in  with  him. 

The  men  made  room,  but  he  did  not  sit  down. 
He  stood  quite  still,  looking  at  them  one  by  one. 

There  was  something  in  his  face  that  moved  them 
strangely.  The  three  men  hung  their  heads;  the 
woman  bowed  hers  upon  her  hands,  and  began  to 
weep. 

"  I  was  dreaming  I  was  at  home,"  she  murmured. 
"  Somehow,  you  make  me  think  of  home,  too." 

"  You  are  not  so  far  from  hon»  as  you  think," 
the  stranger  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

She  looked  up,  and  for  the  first  time  seemed  to 
observe  the  child  upon  the  man's  bosom. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  "  she  said. 

"  A  little  child.  A  child  such  as  you  were  once. 
I  found  him  in  the  snow.  He  was  lost.  Like  you," 
he  added,  slowly. 

"Yes,  that's  true.  O,  my  God,  that's  true!" 
she  cried.   A  fit  of  sobbing  shook  her. 

Presently  she  stood  up.  "  May  I  look  at  him?  " 
she  said  timidly. 

For  answer  the  man  placed  the  sleeping  child  in 
her  arms. 

"  The  pretty  dear,"  she  whispered.  She  drew  her 


a82     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

fingers  through  the  child's  hair,  and  held  him 
against  her  bosom. 
"  Do  you  think  I  might  kiss  him?  "  she  said. 
"  Kiss  him,"  said  the  man. 
She  (lid  so  shrinkingly.  Then,  as  if  a  warmth  of 
mothcrliood  suddenly  inflamed        she  kissed  him 
hungrily,  his  forehead,  his  h;      nis  sleeping  eyes, 
his  little  hands,  doubled  in  the  innocence  of  sleep. 

The  men  watched  the  strange  scene  fascinated, 
and  while  they  watched  the  dawnlight  grew  fuller. 
It  came  in  growing  waves  and  undulation,  id 
touched  the  form  of  the  stranger,  and  each  instant 
he  seemed  to  grow  taller  and  more  distinct. 

The  man  who  had  been  in  prison  twenty  years 
spoke  first. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  cried. 
"One  who  loves  you,"  he  replied.    "One  who 
loves  all  women,  all  children,  all  men,  but  especially 
those  whom  no  one  else  loves." 

"  I've  never  met  a  man  like  you,"  he  answered. 
"  Almost  all  the  men  I  meet  hate  me,  and  therefore 
I  hate  them." 
«    "  But  you  don't  hate  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  humbly.  "  I  think  I  could  love 
you,  if  you'd  give  me  the  chance." 

"  I've  always  loved  you,"  the  man  replied. 
"  But  I've  never  seen  you  before,  how  could  you 
love  me  ?  " 


f 


THE  DEVIL'S  KINGDOM 


a83 


"  I've  seen  you,  Peter  Bernson.  I  was  with  you 
in  prison.  And  you,  and  you,"  he  said,  turning  to 
the  other  men,  and  calHng  them  by  name.  "  And 
you,  poor  woman,  who  have  not  forgotten  how  to 
love  a  little  child.  I  came  here  to  tell  you  this." 

And  then  a  beautiful  and  curious  change  passed 
upon  the  stranger.  It  was  as  though  the  dawnlight 
clothed  him,  and  his  face  grew  bright  and  glad.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  each  in  turn,  and  each 
bowed  the  head  instinctively. 

"  I  am  your  Friend,"  he  said.  "  Hencefor'^  be 
mine.  I  shall  always  remember  that  th.j  n  ^ht 
when  the  rich  rejected  me,  you  received  me." 

They  looked  up,  but  he  was  gone. 

The  men  stood  stupefied,  gazing  with  eyes  of 
wonder  through  the  empty  door. 

■^I't  he  woman  smiled,  for  the  Man  had  left  the 
d  behind.  It  lay  asleep  upon  her  bosom. 
1  :^    ugh  the  open  door  the  golden  day  rolled  in. 


XVI 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD! 

IN  the  midst  of  all  the  popular  commotion  Mercy 
Lane  pursued  her  quiet  tasks  of  charity.  West 
and  Payson  Hume  accompanied  her;  Hume 
almost  constantly,  West  as  citen  as  his  increasing 
public  labours  would  permit. 

For  each  of  these  men  Mercy  Lane's  work  was 
a  revelation.  She  was  their  guide  through  populous 
infernos  of  human  misery,  the  very  existence  of 
which  they  had  not  so  much  as  suspected.  The 
thronged  tenements,  the  crowded  cellars,  the  wan, 
patient  people,  the  relentless  struggle  for  bread,  the 
almost  uncounted  multitude  for  whom  life  held  little 
brightness  and  no  hope — this  was  the  vision  that 
met  them  everywhere.  Payson  Hume,  in  his  new- 
bom  enthusiasm  of  charity,  did  not  realise  it  in  the 
•  same  way  that  West  did.  He  poured  out  his  money 
lavishly,  and  rejoiced  in  the  good  it  did,  but  he  was 
too  little  accustomed  to  patient  and  philosophic 
thought  to  ijrasi)  either  the  nature  or  the  (limension 
of  the  dreadful  problem.  But  West's  mind  was  of 
a  diflferent  order;  to  him  the  ordeal  was  much  more 

284 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  29$ 


terrible,  because  he  had  the  vision  which  discerns 
causes  as  well  as  effects. 

"  O,  my  God,"  he  groaned,  as  he  returned  from 
one  of  these  excursions,  "  twenty  centuries  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  this  the  end  of  it  all!  Well  may  a 
martyred  world  moan  beneath  the  feet  of  God, 
*  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?'  " 

For  lie  saw,  with  growing  distinctness,  that  while 
Christiaiiity  undoubtedly  held  the  solution  of  all 
social  misery,  the  secret  of  all  social  happiness,  its 
followers  had  reduced  it  to  impotence  by  their  own 
refusal  to  accept  its  social  teachings.  He  himself 
had  done  so,  though  unwittingly,  and  if  he  re- 
proached others,  his  own  self-reproach  was  infinitely 
more  bitter.  Here  was  a  religion  born  in  the  heart 
of  a  Poor  Man,  which  set  out  to  redeem  the  poor. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  Every  word  that 
Christ  had  spoken  throbbed  with  compassion  for 
the  poor.  He  was  their  friend;  He  was  the  friend 
of  the  Lazarus  at  the  gate;  He  saw  riches  as  a 
terrible  hindrance  to  right  living;  He  counselled 
men  to  cast  them  away;  He  preached  a  simple  life, 
contented  and  laborious,  as  the  one  kind  of  life  that 
prepared  men  for  life  hereafter.  His  own  great 
powers  He  had  never  used  for  any  selfish  purpose. 
And  His  own  wonderful  life  taught  men  that  it  was 
possible  to  possess  nothing,  and  yet  possess  all 
things. 


286     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


West  saw  that  for  a  time,  how  brief  a  time,  the 
spirit  of  the  Master  survived  Him,  though  very 
early  in  the  Giurch  an  Ananias  and  a  Demas  ap- 
peared. Nevertheless  the  early  Church  was  the 
visible  bodiment  of  Qirist's  ideals.  Its  apostles 
and  teachers  possessed  nothing.  They  exemplified 
the  power  and  beauty  of  a  life  without  selfish  am- 
bitions. And  then  had  happened  a  disastrous 
change;  Christianity  had  become  powerful  enough 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  world-rulers. 

From  that  moment  the  true  spirit  of  Christianity 
evaporated.  It  was  no  longer  a  confederation  of 
the  poor.  It  had  its  own  lords  and  princes,  who 
contended  with  the  princes  of  the  world  for  the 
secular  sceptre.  Then  arose  vast  cathedrals,  abbeys, 
monasteries,  ecclesiastical  palaces,  built  at  a  cost  of 
millions  of  money,  in  which  the  princes  of  the 
Church  lived  luxurious  lives,  or  moved  in  all  the 
circumstance  of  earthly  pomp.  The  successors  of 
the  man  who  had  but  one  frayed  woven  garment, 
and  no  place  where  to  lay  His  head,  were  clothed 
with  purple,  and  slept  in  beds  of  state.  There  was 
•  no  longer  any  effort  to  apply  Christ's  social  teach- 
ings; for  very  shame  the  Church  was  silent.  But 
instead  the  Church  built  up  a  mighty  scheme  of 
doctrine :  made  the  way  in  which  men  believed  upon 
these  doctrines  the  test  of  life  and  death;  persecuted 
for  these  doctrines,  fought  battles  for  them,  burned 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  a«7 


and  tortured  for  them;  and  so  long  as  men  pro- 
fessed these  doctrines  let  them  go  their  way,  and 
live  as  they  chose,  according  to  the  dictates  of  their 
own  greed  or  ambition. 

Of  course,  reformations  of  one  kinJ  or  another 
had  come  at  inter  .  als.  From  time  to  time,  when  the 
ecclesiastical  yoke  had  become  intolerable,  some 
Moses  had  arisen  who  had  led  the  people  into  the 
desert  of  freedom.  Bnt  what  did  it  all  amount  to? 
They  took  their  Egypt  with  them.  Once  free,  once 
powerful  and  triumphant,  the  reformers  themselves 
began  to  reproduce  the  past  they  had  repudiated. 
Doctrine  reigned  again,  a  new  doctrine,  but  with  the 
same  intolerance.  The  rich  once  more  began  to 
rule;  and  all  those  teachings  of  Christ's  which  con- 
demned their  way  of  life  were  quietly  ignored.  And 
so  it  had  gone  on;  till  the  twentieth  century  * 
Christianity  displayed  this  amazing  spectacle: 
the  means  of  life  in  the  hands  of  the  weahhy  few, 
who  took  toll  for  every  mouthful  of  food  'Ahich  the 
poor  man  ate;  Christian  cities,  i.  of  chuirhes,  in 
which  Christ  was  adored,  with  more  flagrant  con- 
trasts of  extreme  wealth  and  extreme  poverty  than 
Rome  displayed  in  the  most  corrupt  period  of  her 
decadence;  and  instead  of  that  simplicity  of  life 
which  Christ  taught,  a  wild  extravagance,  rising 
almost  to  insane  waste  among  the  wealthy,  (|uiii;  un- 
paralleled in  any  previous  era  of  the  world.  That 


288     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

was  what  had  come  of  disregarding  Christ's  social 

teachings. 

And  it  was  little  to  the  purpose  to  reply  that  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  charity  in  the  world,  and  that 
the  Church,  after  all,  was  the  fountain  of  this  charity. 
It  was  much  easier  to  be  charitable  than  to  be  just. 
And  of  aU  the  fearful  ironies  of  life,  surely  this 
was  the  worst,  that  men  who  stole  millions  from 
society  with  one  hand,  thought  their  crime  thor- 
oughly atoned  when  they  gave  doles  with  the  other. 
It  was  as  though  a  robber  should  plead  that,  while 
it  was  perfectly  true  that  he  had  inflicted  a  gaping 
wound  upon  an  innocent  man,  yet  he  had  atoned  for 
everything  by  contributing  to  the  hospital  in  which 
he  was  healed. 

It  was  the  system  of  society  that  was  wrong- 
that  is  what  West  had  come  to  see;  and  the  Church 
was  simply  part  of  the  social  system.   It  had  no 
method  of  life  separate  and  distinct  from  the  life 
of  the  world.    It  was  built  up  from  the  same  ma- 
terials as  society  in  general,— a  little  altered  in 
form,  but  substantially  the  same.   Again  and  again, 
as  he  came  home  from  his  incursions  into  that  dim 
underworld  where  Mercy  Lane's  slender  taper  of 
charity  cast  a  holy  beam,  the  terrible  question  of 
the  Master  rang  through  his  mind:  "When  the 
Son  of  Man  cometh  shall  He  find  faith  on  the 
earth?"   And  he  replied  that  it  was  only  by  the 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  289 

coming  of  the  Son  of  Man  that  faith  could  be  re- 
vived. Christ  had  started  the  world  right  once ;  He 
must  surely  come  again  to  give  it  a  fresh  start.  The 
task  v/as  wholly  beyond  His  disciples.  And  from 
those  grey  tenement  houses,  from  those  tombs  of 
the  spirit  where  souls  lay  in  bondage,  from  every 
life  spoiled  by  the  lust  and  greed  of  men,  it  seemed 
the  cry  went  forth  in  its  agonising  challenge  and 
complaint,  "How  long,  Q  Lord,  how  long?" 

Could  anything  be  done?  That  was  the  question 
which  tortured  him  night  and  day.  And  the  more 
he  considered  it,  the  clearer  became  his  belief  that 
out  of  the  existing  instability  there  must  emerge 
some  new  foundations  for  a  better  social  system. 
And  there  was  an  increasing  body  of  men  who 
shared  his  conviction.  Field,  Stockmar,  the  Car- 
dinal, each  in  his  own  way  had  a  vision  of 
reconstruction. 

One  night  the  three  men  sat  together  in  Field's 
quiet  library.  It  was  the  night  which  followed  the 
events  narrated  in  the  previous  chapter.  Every 
reputable  paper  in  New  York  had  commented 
severely  on  the  saturnalia  of  Pat  Maloney;  the 
exception  had  been  the  Yellow  Press,  which 
had  treated  it  in  the  usual  spirit  of  vivacious 
cynicism. 

West  was  the  first  to  speak.  Was  it  not  possible, 
he  asked,  to  do  something  more  than  call  the  Church 


290     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

to  humiliation  and  prayer?    It  was  notorious  that 
that  appeal  had  been  but  partially  successful. 

"  It  came  too  late,"  Field  replied.  "  It  has  al- 
ways been  the  fault  of  the  Church  that  it  comes' 
too  late.  It  follows  where  it  should  lead,  and  it 
follows  reluctantly." 

"  Yes,  I  admit  that,"  said  West.  "  But  let  us 
be  thankful  that  it  has  spoken  at  all." 

"  That  may  be  a  cause  for  gratitude,  but  not  of 
congratulation,"  Field  replied.    "Can  you  think 
of  one  great  cause  of  reform,  in  which  the  Church 
has  been  the  real  leader,  the  first  to  speak,  the  first 
to  act?   I  confess  that  I  cannot.   In  England  the 
Established  Church  has  consistently  opposed  almost 
every  popular  reform.  In  America  a  large  section 
of  the  Church  supported  negro  slavery,  the  whole 
Church,  indeed,  in  those  States  where  slavery  ex- 
isted.  It  is  only  when  the  people  imposes  its  ideas 
upon  the  Church  that  it  adopts  them.    I  do  not 
profess  to  explain  the  phenomenon;  but  I  see  its 
result.    The  result  is  that  the  Church  is  dis- 
trusted, even  when  it  is  willing  to  take  the  right 
course." 

"  And  I,  alas!  can  explain  the  phenomenon,"  said 
West  sadly.  "  The  interests  of  the  world,  that  is, 
of  the  selfish  world,  arc  so  interwoven  with  the  in- 
terests of  the  Church  that  it  cannot  act  as  its  bet- 
ter spirit  would  dictate." 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  291 
There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  at  last  the 

Cardinal  spoke. 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  argue  the  point,"  he  said, 
"  because  I  think  we  have  come  to  a  point  where 
such  argument  is  quite  useless.  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  discuss  what  can  actually  be  done  in  the 
present  crisis?  And  remember  what  that  crisis  is. 
A  great  fear  lies  upon  the  earth,  and  all  things  are 
shaken." 

"  Fear,  yes,"  said  West  "  And  it  is  in  that  very 
fear  that  I  find  peril." 
"  Peril  of  what?  "  said  Field. 
"  Of  moral  stupefaction.   I  had  hoped  that  this 
awful  certainty  that  Christ  was  again  visiting  His 
world  would  have  roused  a  general  spirit  of  re- 
form.   Instead  of  that,  what  is  happening?  Men 
are  saying,  'It  is  no  good:  the  end  of  all  things 
is  at  hand.'    They  see  thrones  falling,  they  hear 
the  growing  thunder  of  war,  they  feel  the  thr  of 
the  earthquake  beneath  their  feet;  and  instead  of 
setting  their  house  in  order,  they  sit  still  in  a  spirit 
of  dull  fatalism.  They  do  not  think  of  Christ  com- 
ing to  make  all  things  new,  to  give  the  world  a 
fresh  chance,  to  refashion  the  Church  and  society: 
no;  they  think  that  if  His  coming  means  anything, 
it  means  the  final  catastrophe.  And  that  is  not  my 
interpretation  of  these  events.   To  me  they  arc  a 
call  to  action." 


292     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"Yes,  we  all  feel  that,"  said  the  Cardinal. 
"  When  Christ  came  before,  it  was  not  to  destroy, 

but  to  fulfil.    It  will  be  so  again." 

"  But  chiefly  to  fulfil  His  own  purposes  in  and 
through  His  Church,  I  think,"  sai(i  West.  "Car- 
dinal, let  me  try  to  express  my  thought,  and  pardon 
me  if  I  do  so  crudely.  I  want  to  see  a  new  Church, 
more  like  that  which  Christ  Himself  designed,  if 
indeed  He  designed  any,  which  I  think  doubtful.  I 
want  to  see  a  society  of  loving  and  faithful  men, 
who  live  simply,  and  spend  their  time  in  good 
works,  as  the  first  Christians  did.  I  want  to  see 
the  Church  freed  from  the  domination  of  the  rich, 
freed  from  all  the  pomp  and  pride  of  aesthetic  wor- 
ship. I  think  of  the  Master  as  He  lived  in  His 
earthly  life,  ./  ;  enemy  of  all  ostentation,  delight- 
ing in  the  friendship  of  simple  people,  careless  of 
forms  and  conventions,  and  I  cannot  think  of  Him 
as  changed  by  centuries  of  absence  in  the  courts 
of  God.  I  think  of  Him  as  the  great  arbiter  of 
social  justice,  vindicating  the  poor  against  the 
tyranny  of  the  rich,  and  I  want  to  see  a  Church  that 
cares  more  for  social  justice  than  elaborate  theolo- 
gies.  Can  we  not  create  such  a  Church  ?  " 

"Does  not  such  a  Church  already  exist?"  said 
the  Cardinal. 

"A  Church  whose  main  ideal  is  social  justice 
certainlv  does  not  exist,"  said  West.  "  I  don't  say 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  293 

that  the  ideal  is  not  in  the  Church;  but  it  is  not  the 
main  ideal.  The  Church  has  forgotten  righteousness. 
Take  the  case  of  this  anti-rent  war  on  the  East  Side. 
Here  are  tens  of  thousands  of  people  who  ar*'  pay- 
ing more  in  proportion  for  the  vilest  dens  than  the 
rich  pay  for  their  palaces  of  marble.  The  Church 
has  known  all  about  it  for  a  generation.  Yet  it  has 
said  nothing,  done  nothing.  It  is  left  for  the 
Socialists  to  vindicate  the  people  against  their  op- 
pressors. For  the  Socialists  remember  what  the 
Church,  in  its  battles  for  faith  and  creed,  has  for- 
gotten— righteousness." 

"  Not  wholly,  never  wholly,"  said  the  Cardinal. 
"No,  not  wholly,"  West  retorted;  "but  let  me 
ask  one  question  Can  we  suppose  that  the  Work- 
ingman  of  Nazareth  would  i'pprove  the  Church  as 
it  is?  As  for  me,  I  am  overwhelmed  with  shame 
when  I  remember  what  my  life  has  been  as  a  Chris- 
tian minister.  I  am  not  rich,  I  have  never  cared 
for  luxury;  but  when  I  think  of  what  His  life 
was,  I  know  that  in  comparison  T  have  been  clothed 
in  fine  linen  and  have  fared  sumptuously  every  day 
like  Dives.  I  have  behaved  myself  no  better  and 
no  worse  than  a  thousand  of  my  fellows,  it  is  true, 
but  I  think  of  the  astonishment  with  which  He 
would  regard  my  mode  of  life.  And  I  picture  Him 
as  entering  churches  like  yours  and  mine,  tenii^les 
furnished  with  every  luxury  and  comfort  for  the 


294     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

worshipper,  and  I  can  only  think  of  Him  as  once 
more  disdaining  the  costly  marbles,  and  closing 
His  ears  to  the  costly  music,  and  going  out  to  find 
His  true  friends  among  the  humble  poor,  as  He 
did* a  hundred  times  when  He  turned  His  back 
upon  the  priests  of  the  ancient  temple,  and  sough'- 
the  society  of  simple  fishermen  upon  the  shores  of 
Galilee.  Cardinal,  it  is  all  wrong.  And  it  is  all 
ihe  more  wrong  because  we  see  what  our  methods 
have  wrought,  what  is  their  fruit;  more  poverty  by 
far  in  the  world  than  when  He  came,  and  more 
social  injustice  than  He  ever  looked  upon  in  all 
the  days  of  that  earthly  life  in  Palestine." 

West  paused,  overcome  with  emotion. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  we  want,"  said  Stock- 
mar. 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  Cardinal. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  say,"  West  replied. 
"  Except  this :  that  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  what 
His  coming  means  to  me." 

"  And  to  me,"  said  the  Cardinal.  "  And  yet  I 
would  remind  you  that  in  my  Church  such  ideals 
have  always  ueen  respected;  nay,  they  have  always 
*  triumphed.  We  have  had  our  Francis,  our  Loyola, 
our  Vincent  de  Paul." 

*'  And  before  Francis  died  his  ideal  was  dead 
among  his  followers,  and  as  for  Loyola,  you  know. 
Cardinal,  what  happened,"  said  Field. 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  295 


"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  true,"  said  the  Cardinal,  ii:  great 
agitation. 

He  rose  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  his 
pale,  earnest  face  bowed  upon  his  breast. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  repeated.  "  But  I  cannot  think 
quite  as  you  think,  and  1  pray  forgiveness  if  I  am 
wrong.  Do  you  recollect  the  story  of  St.  Bernard  ? 
The  good  saint  had  been  sadly  repeating  for  years 
that  the  world  was  very  evil,  and  that  its  end  was 
near.  Then  he  went  to  Rome,  and  saw  that  the 
Church  was  full  of  good  people  after  all — ^mothers 
who  cared  for  their  children,  rich  women  who  gave 
themselves  to  good  works,  men  who  had  wealth,  but 
were  nevertheless  humble  in  mind  and  simple  in 
life;  and  he  came  back,  saying,  'After  all,  these 
people  love  God.'  And  it  is  so  I  see  the  Church — 
much  of  evil  in  it,  b  it  how  much  more  of  good, 
how  many  just  and  kindly  people  who  shall  say? 
But  surely  a  great  multitude." 

"  I  was  talking  with  an  old  man  the  other  day/' 
said  Field,  "  in  my  consulting-room.  He  was  upon 
the  verge  of  nervous  collapse,  and  when  I  enquired 
the  cause,  he  told  me  a  painful  story  of  a  church 
quarrel,  in  which  he  and  his  family  had  been  in- 
volved. I  said  to  him :  '  Then  why  do  you  stay  in 
the  church?  Leave  it.'  To  my  astonishment  the 
tears  ran  down  his  face,  and  he  replied :  '  Doctor, 
I  can't.  The  Church  is,  after  all,  the  best  thing  we 


296     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

have  in  the  world.  I  can't  leave  it.'  I  have  thought 
a  good  deal  about  that  answer.  It  seems  to  me 
that  there  is  something  approaching  heroism  in  the 
fine  fidelity  of  that  old  man.  And  I  think  he  was 
right  in  the  main.  The  Chu?ch  is  the  best  thing 
we  have  in  the  world.  Even  Carlyle  admitted  in 
his  last  days  that  the  best  people  he  had  ever  met 
were  the  Christian  people." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Cardinal.  "  I  think  any  com- 
petent observer  would  admit  that.  I  think  that  our 
very  anger  against  the  evils  that  have  found  their 
way  into  the  Church  often  blinds  us  to  the  immense 
stores  of  good  which  it  contains:  the  kindliness, 
and  generosity,  and  real  devotion  of  myriads  of 
quiet  folk,  whose  lives  run  an  unseen  course." 

"  O,  don't  think  I  doubt  it,"  said  West  eagerly. 
"  But  surely  that  is  an  evasion  of  the  point — the 
commonest  kind  of  evasion.  The  moment  you  at- 
tack the  Church  you  are  told  that  the  best  people 
on  earth  are  in  the  Church,  as  if  that  settled  every- 
thing. It  settles  nothing.  You  may  meet  people 
of  personal  goodness  anywhere — in  prisons,  in 
saloons,  among  millionaires  who  live  by  licensed 
•robbery.  But  that  doesn't  prove  the  prison  good, 
or  the  saloon  good,  or  the  financial  system  of  preda- 
tory wealth  good.  There  must  have  been  hundreds 
of  good  men  among  the  Pharisees,  and  yet  you 
know  what  Christ  said  of  them.   Pharisaism  was 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  297 


not  good,  whatever  the  Pharisee  was;  and  I  say 
the  Church  may  be  wholly  wrong  in  her  methods, 
however  good  the  individual  church-goer  may  be. 
Your  St.  Bernard  was  right,  after  all,  when  he  con- 
demned the  corruption  of  the  Church,  and  his  sud- 
den discovery  of  good  people  in  the  Church  altered 
nothing.  You  may  find  liUes  in  mud,  but  the  mud 
remains." 

West  paused  a  moment.  He  found  it  difficult  to 
express  the  thought  that  tortured  him.  The  Car- 
dinal, aware  of  his  embarrassment,  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  said,  "  I  think  I  know  what 

you  mean." 

"I  believe  you  do,"  said  West  humbly,  "and 
you  are  a  thousand  fo!d  better  able  to  ex- 
press it  than  L  Yet  I  think  it  can  be  put  in  a 
sentence." 

"  And  that  sentence?  "  said  the  Cardinal. 

"  The  Socialisation  of  Christianity,"  said  West. 

"And  that  means — ^just  what?" 

"It  means  social  justice.  It  means  a  Church 
which  makes  social  justice  the  supreme  aim.  It 
means  that  justice  shall  take  the  place  of  philan- 
thropy. It  means  that  the  Church  must  no  longer 
be  content  to  deal  with  individuals,  but  must  deal 
with  the  social  conditions  of  the  common  life, — 
conditions  which  we  all  know  to  be  so  hostile  to 
the  individual  that  they  constantly  defeat  our  best 


398     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

efforts  to  win  him  to  holiness  of  life.  When  Christ 
comes  He  expects  to  find  not  isolated  individuals 
who  believe  in  Him,  and  order  life  by  His  rule,  but 
a  Kingdom  of  men,  coherent  and  universal,  founded 

on  His  ideals.   Thy  Kingdom  come." 

"  Yet  Christ  Himself  was  content  to  work 
through  individuals,"  said  the  Cardinal. 

"Through  them,  yes;  but  toward  what?  To- 
wards social  confederation.  He  had  to  choose  men 
one  by  one,  and  train  them ;  but  He  had  no  sooner 
done  this,  than  He  banded  them  together,  taught 
them  to  reproduce  His  own  life,  and  so  generated  a 
real  social  force,  with  a  method  and  spirit  of  its 
own,  which  acted  directly  on  the  general  life.  O, 
cannot  we  establish  such  a  society  again — a  real 
Church,  with  few  forms  and  ceremonies,  with  no 
dogma  save  love  to  Christ  and  men,  an  example 
of  high  and  simple  living,  a  force  for  justice — a 
refuge  and  tribunal  of  1'ie  poor? — Ah,  it  is  when 
I  think  of  the  poor  that  my  heart  breaks,  that  I  am 
covered  with  confusion — for  He  was  poor,  a  hum- 
ble, toiling  man.  He  ascended  into  Heaven  ?  Yes, 
He  ascended  too  far.  We  have  forgotten  the  car- 
*penter,  thought  only  of  the  God  moving  through 
the  thunders  of  eternal  Hallelujahs,  Lord  of  the 
hosts  of  Heaven.  And  in  turn  we  also  sing  our 
earthly  Hallelujahs,  our  thoughts  ascend  into 
Heaven,  and  we  do  not  see  men  who  toil  as  He 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  399 

toiled,  iMit  with  much  less  leisure,  with  no  green 
hills  where  they  can  pray  and  meditate,  no  lake  of 
peace  whtre  they  may  cool  their  tired  feet — only 
the  hard,  grievous  streets  of  cities,  where  they  are 
scorned  because  their  hands  are  toil-worn  a.id  their 
raiment  coarse.  And  so  He  comes  again  to  teach 
us  our  forgotten  duty,  comes  to  peasants  in  the 
fields,  comes  to  outcasts. — And  for  me,  I  fear  the 
eyes  of  the  Workingman  of  Nazareth  far  more  than 
I  should  fear  Him,  whom  John  saw,  sitting  on  the 
clouds  with  the  seven  stars  in  His  hands  and  crowns 
upon  His  head.    Yes;  I  am  afraid  " 

He  ceased  suddenly.  He  sat  with  his  head  bowed 
upon  his  hands,  and  sobs  shook  him. 

"  O,  Tliou  divine  Workingman,  forgive  me,  for- 
give us  all !  "  he  prayed. 

A  New  Church — for  a  moment  a  vision,  vague 
and  alluring,  passed  before  the  eyes  of  these  three 
men  who  shared  West's  emotion.  Each  saw  it  in 
his  own  way.  For  one  brief  illvunined  moment  it 
hung  clear  as  a  picture  painted  on  the  air,  a  kind 
of  spiritual  mirage.  They  saw  in  it  the  reunion 
of  mankind;  the  long  war  of  class  against  class 
healed  in  eternal  truce;  love,  not  dogma,  as  the 
bond  of  union;  happiness  no  longer  postponed  to 
realms  beyond  the  grave,  but  the  present  wealth  of 
life;  and  the  basis  of  this  happiness  righteous- 
ness, social  righteousness,  which  made  cruehy  and 


r»     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

greed  impossible.  The  vision  passed  through  the 
mind  of  each  like  a  strain  of  music. 

The  Cardinal  was  the  first  to  np^AL 

"  Alas !  it  cannot  be,"  he  said,  in  faltering  accents. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  West. 

"  The  Church  is  too  deeply  imbedded  in  tradi- 
tion," he  replied.  "  Nothing  but  an  earthquake 
can  free  her." 

"  And  the  earthquake  is  here,"  said  West.  "  All 
things  are  shaken  that  that  which  cannot  be  shaken 
may  remain." 

"  It  seems  so."  said  the  Cardinal.  "  We  have  all 
been  unfaithful  stewards.  It  may  be  that  the 
stewardship  is  about  to  be  taken  from  our  unworthy 
hands.  Even  Rome  herself  must  surrender  the  keys 
of  Peter  when  Peter's  Master  comes.  I  feel  that 
the  old  is  passing,  and  that  He  who  makes  all 
things  new  is  here.  And  it  may  be  that  He  comes 
to  create  the  new  Church  of  which  you  speak,  to 
realise  the  divine  dream  dreamed  long  ago  in  Gali- 
lee. I  can  but  say  humbly  for  myself  that  I  am 
willing  to  leave  all  and  follow  Him.  But  He  alone 
can  do  this  thing;  we  cannot.  We  can  but  pray, 
as  men  have  prayed  for  ages,  Thy  Kingdom 
come." 

"Let  us  pray  for  the  earthquake,  then,"  said 
West.  "  He  shook  the  earth  in  dying;  what  wonder 
if  it  be  again  shaken  at  His  coming?  And  if  once 


HOW  LONG,  O  LORD!  301 


more  the  veil  of  the  temple  be  rent  in  twain,  so 
be  it," 

The  Cardinal  bowed  his  head  and  said,  "  Amen." 
Field  and  Stockmar  also  said,  "  Amen." 

And  to  these  four  men,  the  vague,  aUuring  vision 
was  no  longer  but  a  mirage,  beautiful  and  bodiless. 

It  was  the  very  City  of  3od.  the  embodied  dream 
of  all  the  wise  and  just  souls  of  all  the  ages; — 
above  all.  His  dream,  who  dreamed  true,  even  when 
the  last  darkness  gathered  in  His  eyes,  knowing 
Himself  lifted  up  only  that  all  men  might  be  gath- 
ered to  Him — it  was  this  they  saw,  splendid  and 
tmperishaUe,  rising  out  of  the  wrecks  of  Time. 


XVII 


THE  SIGN 

DO  you  think  she  will  live?  " 
I     The  words  were  spoken  in  a  whisper. 
The  speaker  was  Mrs.  Parke. 
She  stood  outside  the  bedroom  door,  talking  to 
the  Doctor,  an  old  baldheaded  man,  with  a  fresh 
apple-wrinkled  face,  a  small  doubtful  mouth,  land 
kind  brown  eyes,  which  gleamed  through  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles.  It  was  the  third  day  of  Helen's 
illness,  and  the  worst  symptoms  of  pneumonia  had 
declared  themselves. 

Upon  an  old-fashioned  four-post  bed,  with  a 
canopy  and  curtains  of  spotless  white,  Helen  lay 
in  the  slumber  of  exhaustion.  The  room  was  the 
room  in  which  she  was  born.  It  was  furnished  with 
old  Colonial  furniture,  of  dark,  finely  grained  ma- 
hogany, solid  and  beautiful.  Everything  in  the 
room  conveyed  the  air  of  antiquity  and  austerity. 
The  walls  were  unadorned,  save  for  one  small  pic- 
ture of  a  Madonna  and  a  Child,  which  her  grand- 
father had  brought  from  Italy  more  than  half  a 
century  before.    A  small  table,  on  which  her  fa- 

joa 


THE  SIGN 


303 


vourite  books  lay,  stood  beside  the  bed.  One  of 
them  lay  open.  It  was  the  book  she  had  last  read 
on  the  night  when  her  illness  had  begun.  Beside 
it  lay  a  letter  from  her  husband. 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  live?  " 

The  doctor  replied  with  a  slight  movement  of  his 
head,  and  the  ambiguous  smile  of  the  physician — 
that  smile  which  conceals  so  much,  and  is  therefore 
more  to  be  dreaded  than  any  speech. 

"  Who  can  say?  "  he  said,  at  last.  "  She  is  do- 
ing well.  But  I  think  her  husband  should  be  sent 
for." 

"  He  is  already  on  his  way." 
"That  is  well,"  said  the  doctor. 
Tears  gathered  in  the  dimmed  blue  eyes  and 
overflowed. 

"  Do  not  be  too  much  alarmed,"  said  the  old 
man  gently.  "  She  is  young.  She  has  a  good 
fighting  chance." 

"  Ah,  but  she  is  not  using  it,"  said  Mrs.  Parke, 
with  a  flash  of  anguished  insight. 

And  that  was  the  really  serious  thing,  as  both 
knew.  There  are  those  who  cling  to  life  inch  by 
inch,  fibre  by  fibre,  and  they  tire  out  death  by 
their  resistance.  But  when  the  fingers  cling  no 
mure  to  life,  when  they  relax  in  contented  weakness 
and  decline  the  struggle,  death  finds  his  opportu- 
nity. And  this  was  Helen's  case.   She  did  not  try 


304     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

to  swim  against  the  mighty  current.  She  was  tired, 
and  her  will  was  spent.  And  now  the  stream  was 
carrying  her  far  and  farther  every  hour,  bearing 
her  out  to  sea,  that  sea  of  silence  which  receives 

all  and  gives  back  nothing. 

From  the  hour  of  her  interview  with  Dr.  Little- 
ton she  had  drooped.  And  ±en  that  invisible  as- 
sailant, who  watches  for  our  hour  of  weakness  with 
a  deadly  patience,  had  found  his  chance.  An  arrow 
of  ice  sped  silently  upon  the  bitter  wind,  and  smote 
her. 

She  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  wound  at  first. 
She  had  heard  a  paper  read  at  the  Ethical  Society 
that  afternoon,  had  come  home  tired,  and  gone  early 
to  bed.  She  had  lain  awake  for  hours,  thinking 
with  unusual  vividness  of  the  past.  She  had  been 
born  in  that  room,  and  to  beguile  her  mind  she  set 
herself  to  recollect  all  she  could  of  the  past.  She 
was  surprised  at  her  power  of  reminiscence.  She 
could  scarcely  have  been  two  when  she  sat  yonder 
by  the  window,  playing  vn  lih  a  sunbeam  and  calling 
it  God — she  remembered  ckarly  how  she  had  been 
rebuked  for  her  innocent  ulolatry.  Beside  the  same 
window  she  had  learned  to  read — i.ot  fable  or  ro- 
mance, that  was  forbidden, — but  some  dry  moral 
story  about  the  evil  of  untruthfulness;  that  was  her 
austere  introduction  to  literature.  Then  the  picture 
on  the  wall  had  attracted  her;  the  pale-faced  woman 


THE  SIGN 


305 


with  the  sad-eyed,  wondering  child  in  her  arms  fas- 
cinated her,  and  that  was  her  introduction  to  the 
world  of  grief.   She  pitied  her  exceedingly.  The 

picture  hung  over  the  mantel,  and  for  a  time  she 
used  to  place  every  day  beneath  it  a  little  offering 
of  flowers.  The  pale-faced  woman  seemed  to  smile 
benignly  on  her  gift,  but  the  shadow  of  grief  al- 
ways lay  within  those  dark  eyes,  and  on  that  wist- 
ful mouth.  Why  was  she  so  sad?  Perhaps  it  was 
that  tht  child  was  going  to  die,  and  she  knew  it. 
Children  did  sometimes  die — she  had  found  out 
that, — and  she  wondered  what  it  meant,  and 
whether  it  hurt  much.  One  day  her  offerings  of 
flowers  wore  discovered,  and  once  more  she  was 
rebuked.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  always  be- 
ing rebuked.  Whenever  her  imagination  spread  its 
wings,  she  was  instantly  dragged  back  to  earth,  like 
a  kite.  She  smiled  sadly  at  the  thought.  How 
different  might  her  life  have  been  had  her  imagi- 
nation been  nourished  and  directed,  instead  of 
suppressed ! 

But  it  was  always  suppressed;  suppression  had 
been  the  dominant  note  of  her  bleak  childhood. 
She  saw  various  human  shadows  move  across  the 
room — her  father,  her  grandfather,  her  grand- 
mother; they  were  all  of  the  same  type,  their  faces 
all  had  the  same  bleak  light  upon  thein.  It  was 
like  the  light  that  filled  the  room  when  snow  lay 


306     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

on  the  ground,  pale,  pure,  hard.    Their  very  Hps 
seemed  frozen.   She  never  heard  them  laugh.  Lit- 
tle frozen  maxims  fell  from  those  straight  lips, 
which  chilled  the  air.   Her  mother  was  different— 
at  first.    But  she  soon  grew  like  the  rest,  except 
that  she  sometimes  said  things  that  were  shrewd 
enough  to  seem  like  wit.   But  they  were  all  alike 
in  this,  that  they  saw  life  in  hard  outlines,  utterly 
without  shadows.    There  was  something  desiccat- 
ing in  the  very  air  of  that  prim  house.   Her  father, 
as  he  grew  older,  had  a  look  of  even  physical  desic- 
cation; he  sat  for  hours  reading  dry  books,  turning 
the  pages  with  thin,  bloodless  hands.  Sometimes 
she  regarded  these  people  as  a  kind  of  dreadful 
automata.    The  pale-faced  woman  in  the  picture 
seemed  much  more  alive  than  they. 

Her  father's  thin  bloodless  hands  had  a  curious 
fascination  for  her.  She  would  watch  them  fur- 
tively for  hours  as  he  read.  They  looked  so  brittle, 
she  expected  them  to  break  off  some  day. 

On  the  day  when  her  father  died,  there  came 
to  her,  for  the  first  time,  a  sense  of  mystery  in  life. 
Where  had  he  gone?  What  had  really  happened 
to  him?  She  saw  him  lying  very  still  like  a  figure 
carved  in  ivory.  This  continued  several  days.  A 
pale  light  filled  the  room.  He  lay  quite  alone,  but 
he  made  no  complaint.  Then  he  disappeared,  and 
she  knew  vaguely  that  he  would  appear  no  more. 


THE  SIGN 


307 


But  where  had  he  gone?  She  was  told  he  was  in 
heaven,  but  the  answer  conveyed  nothing  to  her 
mind.  She  could  not  picture  him  in  any  other 
way  than  as  sitting  in  a  high-backed  chair,  with  a 
book  upon  his  knees,  reading  or  sleeping.  This 
seemed  incongruous.  Later  on  she  saw  his  grave, 
and  the  contradiction  was  obvious.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  think.  Perhaps  the  dark-eyed  woman 
in  the  picture  knew  all  about  it.  She  had  grown 
wise,  watching  the  grief  of  the  world,  and  her 
lips  smiled  inscrutably.  But  whatever  secret  lay 
behind  that  inscrutable  face,  it  was  incommunicable. 

She  listened  eagerly  in  church  on  Sundays  for 
some  word  that  should  make  things  clear,  but  it 
never  came.   Once  she  heard  a  sermon  on  heaven. 
Heaven,  it  appeared,  was  a  place  of  infinite  delight 
to  which  people  went  if  they  were  good;  but  it 
struck  her  as  a  strange  contradiction  that  no  one 
seemed  very  anxious  to  go  there.   She  would  have 
liked  to  go  that  very  afternoon,  so  bright,  so  al- 
luring was  the  picture  presented  to  her  heart.  When 
she  spoke  her  thought  she  was  once  more  rebuked, 
and  made  to  feel  foolish  for  having  entertained 
it.    From  that  hour  it  seemed  to  her  that  awe 
and  wonder  passed  out  of  her  life.    She  began  to 
see  what  lay  around  her  with  new  distinctness,  but 
the  beautiful  far-oflf  things  that  lay  like  tinted 
clouds  on  the  horizon  of  her  mind,  slowly  dissolved 


3o8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

and  \v::hdrew.   And,  as  she  lay  thinking,  she  began 
to  see  for  the  first  time  the  nature  of  the  wrong  that 
had  been  done  her.    She  had  been  denied  the  ex- 
ercise of  her  imagination.  She  had  been  forced  into 
a  life  of  mathematical  rigidity,  all  plain  lines  and 
angles,  nowhere  sweet  curves,  nowhere  a  touch  of 
colour.   Ah,  how  different  might  she  have  been  if 
her  imagination  had  been  nourished — she  might 
then,  perhaps,  have  understood  Francis  and  his 
strange  visions!— and  with  that  a  sharp  anguish 
smote  her.    She  sat  up  in  bed  and  read  his  last 
letter  slowly;  but  the  lines  wavered,  her  head  fell 
forward  in  utter  weariness.   She  became  conscious 
of  something  happening  to  her  which  loosened  all 
the  sinews  of  her  strength,  and  dimmed  her  eyes. 
She  was  going  to  be  ill,  possibly  to  die.  Well, 
perhaps  it  was  best  so;  she  had  nothing  left  to 
live  for. 

Yes,  she  had  one  thing;  she  had  that  intellectual 
integrity  of  which  Dr.  Littleton  had  spoken  so 
lightly.  Her  mind  was  quite  lucid  now.  She 
prayed  that  it  might  continue  so.  She  was  going  to 
,  be  ill,  and  in  illness  strange  things  happened,  and 
often  a  thing  both  strange  and  pitiable,  that  men 
did  in  the  hour  of  weakness  what  they  would  have 
scorned  in  the  day  of  strength.  She  had  read  of 
such  things;  sudden  repudiations  of  lifelong  con- 
viction, reversals,  recantalionb,  and  she  had  always 


THE  SIGN 


309 


felt  something  shameful  in  them.    Things  surely 
remained  true  or  false,  whatever  happened;  why 
should  their  value  be  altered  by  something  that 
happened  to  the  body?  Yet,  even  now  she  was  con- 
scious of  these  altering  values.    Had  not  some- 
thing in  her  heart  cried  out  to  that  Woman  of 
Sorrows  who  watched  her  with  inscrutable  dark 
eyes,  something  forgotten  ever  since  those  days 
when  as  a  child  she  placed  her  offerings  of  flowers 
before  the  picture?    Ah,  if  she  could  but  sleep, 
she  would  no  doubt  awake  calm,  self-possessed,  the 
mistress  of  her  soul.    But  she  could  not  sleep. 
Billows  of  flame  ran  across  her  mind ;  her  thoughts 
flared  out  like  a  conflagration.    They  lit  up  every 
little  detail  of  her  life,  and  she  had  a  horrible  con- 
viction that  nothing  was  really  forgotten,  that  on 
the  delicate  palimpsest  of  the  brain  every  insignifi- 
cant act  and  word  was  written  indelibly.    O,  for 
sleep!   O,  to  quench,  if  even  for  a  moment,  that 
torturing  conflagration  of  the  mind ! 

She  rose  silently,  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  from 
it  a  small  hypodermic  syringe.  She  had  rarely  used 
it,  but  she  knew  its  use.  She  smiled  a  little  bitterly 
as  she  drew  it  from  its  case.  Was  this  being  mis- 
tress of  herself?  But  she  was  past  caring  for 
her  own  self-scorn.  One  tyrannous  desire  absorbed 
her— the  desire  of  sleep,  the  desire  to  postpone, 
even  for  an  instant,  the  violence  of  pain  that  grew 


m 


310     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

upon  her.  She  dropped  the  tiny  tabloid  in  the 
water,  adjusted  the  slender  needle,  and  injected  the 
morphia.  Then  she  lay  back  upon  her  pillows, 
her  hands  folded,  breathing  slowly  and  regtilarly. 
A  soft  wave  of  rest  flowed  over  her;  it  was  like 
liquid  velvet.  A  second  and  a  third  wave  followed. 
The  lights  in  her  mind  grew  dim.  They  became 
faint  embers,  burning  along  a  vast  line  of  sea. 
They  went  out  one  by  one,  and  she  heard  the  wash 
of  waves  along  an  unseen  shore.  She  was  being 
rocked  to  sleep  by  these  friendly  waves. 

She  woke  reluctantly,  and  the  cold  grey  dawn 
filled  the  room.  She  had  lost  all  sense  of  time  and 
place.  Two  persons  stood  beside  her,  her  mother  and 
the  doctor.  They  spoke  in  low  voices,  and  thought 
she  did  not  hear.  But  she  did,  though  she  gave 
no  sign.  She  did  not  want  these  two  persons.  She 
wished  that  they  would  go  away.  Their  whispering 
irritated  her.  There  was  some  one  she  did  want, 
but  she  could  not  think  of  his  name.  She  made  a 
great  effort  to  recollect  that  name;  it  was  like  div- 
ing in  a  deep  sea  for  a  pearl  she  could  not  find, 
,and  she  felt  breathless  with  the  effort.  Then  it 
came  to  her  quite  suddenly,  as  though  a  star  had 
silently  fallen  into  the  dark  water  and  illumined 
it.  "  I  want  Francis,"'  she  said.  Having  said  it, 
she  sank  back  again  into  contented  silence,  and  the 
slow  waves  flowed  over  her. 


THE  SIGN 


3" 


She  was  far  from  shore  now,  in  a  spacious  soli- 
tude of  water;  and  she  began  to  be  afraid.  It  was 
the  infinite  loneliness  that  dismayed  her.  Shadows 
lay  upon  the  sea,  and  they  grew  deeper.   Then  a 
tiny  boat  of  silver,  like  a  crescent  moon,  floated 
toward  her.    Standing  erect  in  it  was  the  Woman 
of  Sorrows,  with  the  little  Child  in  her  arms,  and 
light  seemed  to  flow  from  her  raiment.    She  held 
the  Child  to  her  bosom  with  one  arm;  the  other  she 
stretched  c  *  towards  her. 
"  Comt       me,"  she  said.  *'  I  can  save  you." 
At  first  au^  did  not  want  to  go  with  the  Woman. 
She  only  wanted  to  be  let  alone.    But  as  she 
watched  the  shadows  deepening  yet  more  and  more 
upon  the  sea,  her  fear  increased — fear  of  that  in- 
finite loneliness  and  silence.    She  stepped  lightly 
into  the  frail  boat.    It  seemed  built  of  thinnest 
pearl.  The  water  bubbled  round  its  rim,  and  began 
to  overflow  it. 
"  Have  faith,"  said  the  Woman. 
But  the  water  overflowed  more  and  more,  and 
the  boat  began  to  sink. 

"  What  is  that  which  thou  hidest  in  thy  bosom?  " 
said  the  Woman. 

"  It  is  myself,"  she  answered. 
"  That  is  why  the  boat  sinks.  Thou  must  cast 
thyself  away.  This  is  faith,  to  cast  thyself  away." 
But  she  clung  yet  the  clc»er  to  that  which  lay 


312     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

within  her  bosom.  Herself — that  was  all  she  had; 
how  could  she  cast  it  away  ?  It  was  her  one  treas- 
ure. Yet  she  knew  that  it  was  very  heavy. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  Woman.  "  That  which  thou 
hidest  in  thy  bosom  has  never  brought  thee  joy. 
Therefore  cast  it  from  thee,  and,  once  released 
from  its  burden,  thou  shait  walk  upon  the  waters. 
I  promise  it." 

She  was  moved  for  a  moment,  and  put  her  hand 
within  her  bosom  to  pluck  forth  the  thing  that 
was  her  peril.  She  could  feel  it  there  distinctly; 
something  hard,  and  cold,  and  very  heavy.  But 
the  moment  she  tried  to  pluck  it  forth  it  became  a 
thing  alive  that  struggled  and  resisted.  It  was  like 
plucking  out  her  heart,  and  the  pain  was  terrible. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  said. 

"  Try,"  said  the  Woman. 

"Why  should  I?"  she  answered  angrily.  "It 
has  always  been  there.  I  have  grown  up  with  it. 
I  am  used  to  it." 

"  Then  thou  wilt  sink,"  said  the  Woman. 

Indeed,  as  she  spoke,  the  waters  overflowed  yet 
jnore.  They  washed  her  feet,  they  rose  to  her  knees. 

"  Hast  thou  no  faith  ? "  cried  the  Woman,  in  a 
voice  of  agonised  entreaty. 

"None,"  she  replied.  "I  never  had  it.  It  is 
too  late  now." 

And  even  while  she  spoke  the  boat  seemed  to 


THE  SIGN 


313 


dissolve,  as  light  dissolves  upon  the  sea  when  a 
cloud  covers  the  moon,  and  she  sank  slowly  into 
the  dark  waves.  But  the  Woman  and  the  Child 
remained,  miraculously  buoyed  up  upon  the  water. 
They  glided  from  her,  till  the  light  within  the 
Woman's  raiment  was  but  as  a  star  in  the  distance. 
It  was  the  last  thing  she  saw  as  the  waters  over- 
whelmed her,  and  she  began  to  sob,  because  the  sea 
was  so  lonely  now  that  the  Woman  had  gone.  She 
awoke  sobbing. 

It  was  midnight.  A  shaded  light  btimed  upon 
the  mantel-shelf  beneath  the  picture;  the  rest  of 
the  room  was  dark.  The  two  figures  she  had  dis- 
liked were  gone,  but  some  one  else  was  there. 
He  stood  beside  the  mant  ' ,  his  head  bowed  upon 
his  hands.  The  room  was  silent,  but  for  the  faint 
crackle  of  the  wood-fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  she 
could  hear  his  breath  as  it  came  and  went.  There 
was  the  suggestion  of  great  grief  and  loneliness  in 
his  attitude.  He  appeared  to  be  praying  silently, 
and  once  in  his  prayer  he  spoke  aloud.  It  was  to 
utter  her  name.  Then  she  knew  him,  and  in  a 
faint  voice  said,  "  Francis !  " 

He  was  by  her  side  in  a  moment.  His  Hps  were 
upon  her  forehead,  her  hand  in  his.  How  cool 
and  strong  that  hand  of  his  felt;  how  good  it  was 
to  feel  its  gentle  pressure.  She  would  not  sink  now. 

She  turned  to  him  gratefully. 


314     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  Kiss  me  again,  dear,"  she  said.  "  No,  not  the 
forehead,  the  Hps." 

She  lay  silent  for  a  long  time  after  that. 

Then  ^e  said:  "Kneel  down,  dear,  so  that  I 
may  reach  you.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  knelt  down,  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
head,  and  smooti.ed  back  the  heavy  hair. 

"  I  was  wrong  to  leave  you,"  she  said.  "  But 
you  have  come  back.  That  was  like  you,  dear." 

"  We  must  not  part  again,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  broken  by  sobs. 

But  she  knew  better.  The  frail  hand  that  moved 
so  softly  on  his  head  was  r.  en  now  engaged  in  a 
mute  farewell. 

"  You  will  soon  be  well,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  in  a  whls{)er,  "  I  am  going 
away,  this  time  for  good.  It  is  well  that  you  should 
know  it.    I  am  sorry,  so  sorry,  dear." 

"  No,  no,  it  cannot  be !  "  ht  cried. 
Yes,"  she  said. 

He  received  the  blow  in  silence.  But  his  eyes 
were  startled  and  full  of  anguish. 

"  Listen  1"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing.   You  and  I,  dear,  may  never  meet  again." 

"  Yes,  in  the  Hereafter — surely  there !  "  he  cried. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  sadly,  "  and  I  can't  pre- 
tend. You  wouldn't  wish  me  to  do  that;  would 
you,  dear  ?  " 


THE  SIGN 


"  No,"  he  whispered. 

"  Well,  listen  then.  If  I  am  without  hope,  re- 
member that  I  am  aUo  without  fear.  I  am  con- 
tent to  go  by  the  road  which  all  have  travelled 
or  must  travel.  Whether  there  is  anything  at  the 
end  of  the  road  I  do  not  know.  Sometimes  I  think 
so  .  .  .  more  often  it  is  quite  dark.  But  I  am 
content  to  have  lived  ...  to  have  known  you, 
dear,  to  have  loved  you.  That  is  much,  far  more 
than  I  had  the  right  tq  ask." 

"  O,  my  darling,  if  I  could  but  give  you  faith," 
he  murmured. 

"  But  you  cannot,"  she  said  wistfully.  "  No  man 
can  save  his  brother's  soul.  Some  have  faith,  some 
have  it  not.  I  am  one  of  those  who  have  not.  God 
won't  be  hard  on  me  for  that,  will  He,  dear?" 

"  No,  no.    He  will  understand." 

"  Yes,  He  will  understand,"  she  repeated.  "  You 
do;  He  must.  And  that  is  why  I  aM  not  afraid." 

He  came  nearer,  and  laid  her  titsA  upon  his 
shoulder.  AH  the  sweetness  of  the  first  days  of 
their  married  love  came  back  to  him  in  that  mo- 
ment ;  and  she,  realising  the  same  memories,  put  her 
frail  arm  about  his  neck. 

You  must  not  grieve,"  she  whispered. 

She  made  an  effort  to  wipe  away  the  tears  from 
his  face,  and  at  this  act  of  tenderness  he  brcrfce  out 
in  an  exceeding  bitter  cry. 


3i6     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  O,  if  you  had  but  faith ! "  he  cried.  "  Per- 
haps it  will  come  yet — before  the  " — he  could  not 
speak  the  word  "  end."  "  But  don't  think  that  I 
am  afraid  for  you,  dear.  Only  if  some  light  shines, 
if  at  the  end  of  the  road  you  see  anything,  give 
me  a  sign,  dear.  It  will  make  no  diflference  to 
you  .  .  .  God  will  never  blame  you  for  being  hon- 
est. But  if  He  gives  you  some  light,  let  me  know, 
dear.  It  will  make  all  the  difference  to  me,  when 
I  think  of  you  in  all  the  lonely  years  that  are  to 
come." 

"  I  will  let  you  know;  ...  if  I  cannot  speak,  I 
will  raise  my  hand.  Will  that  do,  dear?  Now  let 
me  sleep,  I  am  very  tired." 

The  light  died  out  of  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

The  arm  around  his  neck  relaxed  its  intimate  caress. 

Another  day  passed,  and  she  still  lay  uncon- 
scious. O,  dreadful  hours,  when  that  which  was 
so  full  of  eager  life,  whose  will  contended  wiih  our 
own  it  may  be,  whose  secret  hopes  and  fears  we  so 
little  understood,  nor  sought  to  know,  lies  inani- 
mate— nothing  left  us  but  the  silent  body,  from 
,  whose  lips  no  word  comes,  from  whose  eyes  no  rec- 
ognition shines,  perhaps  in  whose  heart  our  very 
image  is  effaced.  O,  dreadful  hours,  when  v/e 
would  give  a  year  of  life  for  one  brief  word  or 
glance;  when  this  which  was  so  common,  that  we 
disregarded  it  or  held  it  lightly,  has  suddenly  ac- 


THE  SIGN 


317 


quired  a  value  wholly  inestimable,  because  it  is 
denied  us,  and  forevfaioic.  And,  still  more  terri- 
ble, the  thought  that  this  soul  wc  ioved  is  passing 
out  upon  a  dim  and  k  i  lors  ay  we  cannot  tread, 
unaccompanied,  feanui,  anu  „:''tary,  and  that  the 
words  which  might  have  cheered  it  now  must  be 
unspoken,  or,  if  spoken,  be  in  vain. 

Would  she  give  the  sign?  All  the  anguish  of 
West's  heart  gathered  itself  in  that  question. 

It  could  not  greatly  matter,  he  told  himself.  She 
was,  after  all,  what  life  had  made  her,  and  last 
moments  could  not  alter  years.  And  she  had  been 
indomitably  honest — honest  when  she  left  him; 
and  God  would  take  just  account  of  that.  But  it 
was  less  of  her  than  of  himself  that  he  was  think- 
ing when  he  asked  the  sign.  He  saw  that  now. 
He  had  shaped  her  life.  If  her  own  life  had  not 
altered  when  his  altered,  it  was  not  her  fault;  but 
the  weight  and  responsibility  of  all  those  previous 
years  lay  heavy  upon  him.  And  he  saw,  too,  how 
sorely  tempted  she  must  have  been  to  speak  the 
word  of  faith  for  his  sake.  It  would  have  been 
so  easy  that  she  must  have  wished  to  do  it.  But 
she  did  not;  and  there  was  something  heroic  in 
her  honesty,  in  this  clinging  of  the  brave  tortured 
soul  to  its  own  integrity.  God  would  remember 
that.  And  it  came  to  him  with  a  flood  of  tender- 
ness that  Christ  said  no  hard  word  even  to  the  man 


3i8     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

who  refused  to  believe  unless  he  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  side.  No  doubt  the  other  disciples,  who 
had  had  their  sign,  jeered  at  Thomas  because  he 
refused  all  hearsay  evidence;  but  Jesus  saw  the 
heroic  in  his  doubt,  and  gave  him  all  he  asked  for. 
That  was  so  like  Jesus,  never  to  ask  too  much 
of  human  nature,  always  to  be  tender  to  its  very 
frailties,  because  He  knew  how  close  the  frailty  lay 
to  the  heroism  and  the  faith. 

The  long  night  wore  itself  away.  Otke  more 
the  cold,  pure  dawn  flowed  into  the  silent  room. 

The  end  had  come.  The  breathing  sank  lower, 
and  was  like  a  child's. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes.  The  last  dying  light 
of  recognition  fluttered  in  them  for  a  moment,  and 
slowly  faded. 

He  stooped  over  her  pale  lips. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  whispered. 

Was  that  all?  He  waited  breathlessly.  Was 
there  no  light  along  the  dark  road? 

Another  moment  passed.  She  lay  with  her  hands 
open,  helpless,  straight  beside  her. 

Suddenly  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  moved. 
She  lifted  the  hand  slowly,  once,  thrice. 

A  faint  smile  relaxed  the  lips.  It  was  like  the 
last  ray  of  pale  sunlight  upon  snow.  It  died  away, 
and  all  was  dark. 


aVIII 

THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN 

WEST  was  in  the  quiet  house  in  New  York 
again,  quiet  and  empty  now.  His  grief 
was  great,  but  under  it,  as  beneath  the 
waves  of  a  troubled  sea,  there  lay  a  profound  abyss 
of  peace.  Peace  in  the  thought  that  all  was  well 
with  Helen;  that  at  the  last  she  had  not  been  with- 
out light  on  the  dark  road;  she  had  given  the  sign. 
He  wondered  much  what  that  sign  meant,  what  it 
was  the  passing  soul  saw  in  that  final  moment;  but 
he  was  sure  that  the  smile  which  lay  upon  her 
dead  face  was  the  expression  of  a  great  happiness. 

In  a  way  wholly  mystical,  and  therefore  inex- 
pressible in  the  ordinary  symbols  of  language,  he 
felt  himself  a  sharer  in  that  happiness.  Wherever 
she  was  or  whatever  she  saw,  she  was  now  nearer  to 
him  than  she  had  ever  been.  She  would  no  longer 
misjudge  him,  and  he  was  incapable  of  misjudging 
her.  When  they  met  again  it  would  be  in  the  light 
of  perfect  knowledge. 

So  he  took  up  the  work  of  life  again,  not  in  a 
spirit  of  dull  stoicism,  but  in  a  mood  that  might 
be  best  described  as  one  of  chastened  elation.  He 

319 


320     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

must  work  while  it  was  called  to-day,  and  ah,  how 
much  there  was  to  do!  For  every  hour  orought 
fresh  proof  that  the  foundations  of  society  were 
loosened.  As  he  had  said  in  his  memorable  discus- 
sion with  the  Cardinal,  fear  lay  upon  the  ear.a, 
and  was  producing  everywhere  moral  stupefaction. 
Yet  he  knew  that  this  was  but  the  darkness  before 
the  dawn.  Something  new  must  emerge;  the  world 
was  not  ending,  it  was  only  beginning.  V/hen  the 
dawn  came,  it  would  make  all  things  new.  More  and 
more  he  set  his  face  toward  that  inevitable  Dawn. 

But  in  the  meantime  the  darkness  only  seemed 
to  deepen.  The  general  cessation  of  business  had 
produced  enormous  poverty.  Hordes  of  workless 
men  n.arched  through  every  city,  demanding  resti- 
tution for  their  wrongs.  They  carried  blood-red 
banners  and  sang  the  Marseillaise  as  they  marched. 
Simultaneously  there  sprang  up  in  every  city  So- 
cialistic tribunals,  proclaiming  social  revolution. 
The  authorities  dared  not  interfere.  It  was  ru- 
moured that  they  themselves  had  been  bought  by 
the  Socialists.  The  rumour  was  believed,  and  the 
result  was  a  reign  of  terror  in  New  York.  The 
rich  fled  to  their  country  estates;  their  mansions 
on  Fifth  Avenue  were  barricaded;  yet  there  was  no 
actual  violence  or  bloodshed;  even  those  who  had 
most  come  to  hate  the  Socialists,  acknowledged  that 
they  acted  with  great  restraint  and  wisdom. 


THE  NEW  V/ORLD  IS  BORN  321 

The  fact  was  that,  while  the  Church  did  not 
know  what  to  do,  the  Socialists  took  advantage  of 
the  situation,  and  did  much  that  the  Cliurch  should 
have  done  long  before.  They  proclaimed  the  reign 
of  universal  justice.  They  affirmed  the  social  ideas 
of  Jesus  as  their  own.  But  with  equal  emphasis  they 
scorned  His  religious  ideals.  They  had  been  tried, 
they  said,  and  had  failed.  They  had  produced 
only  selfish  individualism  by  centring  all  human 
thought  upon  the  salvation  of  the  personal  souL 
All  the  wrong  of  the  world  could  be  traced  to  that 
cause.  But  the  social  ideas  of  Jesus  had  never 
been  tried.  None  of  these  so-called  Christians  had 
paid  the  least  regard  to  these  social  teachings.  Who 
of  them  gave  to  him  that  had  need,  not  expecting 
to  receive  again?  Who  was  truly  indifferent  to 
wealth?  Who,  when  he  made  a  feast,  preferred 
the  company  of  those  who  could  not  recompense 
him?  Who  realised  that  the  only  true  life  was  that 
which  ministered  and  was  not  ministered  unto? 
Who  lived  as  though  he  truly  believed  that  a  man's 
life  consisted  not  in  the  abundance  of  things  which 
he  possessed?  Scarcely  any  one.  The  Church  had 
for  ages  been  notoriously  upon  the  side  of  wealth, 
and  even  predatory  wealth.  Whether  Jesus  had 
come  again,  or  would  come,  or  could  come,  was 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  them;  but  if  He  did. 
He  would  surely  approve  their  action,  for  they 


322     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


were  really  engaged  in  applying  His  ideals  to  a 
society  which  had  never  tried  them. 

This  plea  was  too  plausible  and  pertinent  to  be 
ignored.  But  West  knew  perfectly  that  the  social 
ideas  of  Jesus  were  based  upon  His  religious  ideas, 
and  that  the  one  without  the  other  must  prove  im- 
practicable. He  acknowledged  that  the  Church,  by 
directing  all  her  energy  to  the  salvation  of  the  in- 
dividual soul,  had  undoubtedly  created  that  spirit 
of  other-worldliness,  which  regarded  all  questions 
of  wide  social  betterment  as  secondary  and  even 
negligible.  But  was  it  not  also  clear  that,  without 
the  conviction  of  the  value  of  the  personal  soul, 
there  could  be  no  true  impulse  to  social  endeavour  ? 
Withdraw  the  sanction  of  the  world  to  come,  and 
human  life  appeared  so  meagre  a  thing  that  the 
temptation  was  irresistible  to  live  selfishly.  "  Eat, 
drink,  be  merry,  to-morrow  we  die;"  it  was  the 
only  sensible  philosophy  for  those  who  held  that 
death  ended  all.  No;  the  world  could  avoid  anarchy 
only  by  means  of  the  religious  ideas  of  Jesus.  And 
there  lay  the  hope  of  the  Church — that  new  Church 
which  he  saw  slowly  rising  out  of  the  abyss  of 
the  general  confusion.  "  First,  that  which  is  spirit- 
ual; then,  that  which  is  natural,"  he  said,  thus  re- 
versing the  Apostolic  word.  A  Church,  newly, 
vehemently  awake  to  the  reality  of  the  spiritual, 
would  soon  begin  to  act  on  social  conditions  with 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN  323 

new  power.  And  so  he  set  himself  more  and  more 
to  organise  such  a  Church.  It  was  to  be  the  Church 
of  the  New  Life.  It  would  achieve  social  justice 
because  it  was  cure  of  its  spiritual  sanctions.  It 
would  simplify  the  whole  system  of  life.  Socialism 
could  not  do  this,  because  its  underlying  princi- 
ple was  greed  of  happiness.  The  Church  of  the 
New  Life  could  do  it,  because  its  master-principle 
was  the  greed  of  Ckx)d. 

He  pondered  these  thoughts  much  in  his  lonely 
house;  night  after  night  found  him  thinking,  pray- 
ing. And  strange  as  it  may  seem,  Payson  Hume 
helped  him  greatly  toward  clearness  of  definition. 

The  big  florid  man  was  now  his  most  frequent 
visitor.  He  usually  came  late  at  night,  after  a 
long  day  spent  in  toils  among  the  poor.  He  was 
busily  engaged  in  investing  all  his  money  in  the 
stock  of  Human  Kindness,  and  it  was  clear  that 
he  was  drawing  vast  dividends  of  personal  hap- 
piness. The  whole  man  was  dianged.  The  eyes 
no  longer  glanced  craftily  from  beneath  veiled  lids; 
they  were  frank,  open,  filled  with  light.  His  jovial 
manner  was  softened  into  something  much  rarer, 
geniality.  He  was  so  manifestly  glad-hearted,  so 
jubilant,  that  his  very  presence  kindled  joy. 

"What  have  you  done  to-day?" 

And  then  he  would  tell  West,  always  ending  with 
a  tribute  of  gratitude  to  Mercy  Lane 


324     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


"  That  woman  is  an  angel,"  he  would  say. 

For  he  loved  her:  he  made  no  disguise  of  that. 

There  were  many  moments  when  he  longed  to  tell 

her  so,  to  ask  her  to  marry  him;  but  he  dared  not 

speak.   To  him  she  was  a  sacred  creature,  of  whom 

he  was  entirely  unworthy.   He  was  content  to  walk 

beside  her,  to  touch  her  raiment  with  a  furtive 

hand,  to  treasure  her  words  and  glances.  He  found 

an  exquisite  delight  in  these  things,  which  thoughts 

of  human  passion  only  disturbed  and  dissipated. 

It  was  as  though  a  crystal  screen  rose  between  him 

and  her;  she  was  a  creature  apart.  He  would  never 

reach  her;  she  would  remain  forever  unattainable; 

yet  there  was  more  of  delight  than  disappointment 

in  the  thought — 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss. 
Forever  wilt  thoa  love,  and  she  be  fair. 

"  She  is  an  angel " — ^that  was  his  joy,  at  times  his 
torture — yet  a  blissful  torture.  He  was  never  tired 
of  talking  of  her  to  West,  but  to  others  he  said 

nothing. 

"She  goes  into  a  room  full  of  misery  and 
squalor,"  he  would  say,  "and  it  is  as  if  the  sun- 
light came  in  with  her.  She  lays  her  pure  hands 
upon  crying  children,  and  they  fall  asleep;  upon 
peevish,  miserable,  diseased  creatures,  and  they  an- 
swer her  with  smiles.  She  seems  to  bring  peace 
and  purification  with  her  into  the  meanest  room. 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN  325 

She  will  kneel  beside  a  dying  woman,  and  say  noth- 
ing—only pray  silently,— and  the  moaning  ceases, 
the  restless  hands  lie  quiet.  Oh,  it  is  wonderful  I 
If  I  could  only  be  a  little  more  like  her  .  .  .  but  she 
is  an  angel."  And  tears  shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

One  night  he  came  to  West  with  a  great  scheme. 
The  snow  once  more  lay  upon  the  city,  the  cold 
was  extreme,  Christmas  was  near.  And  the  poverty 
was  dreadful  The  strong  man  wept  as  he  des-:ribed 
it.  The  people  were  starving  silently,  heroically. 
The  Socialistic  tribunak  had  failed  to  bring  them 
practical  relief.  They  were  too  busy  with  their  ideals 
for  reform,  and,  while  they  debated,  people  died. 
And  the  Church  did  even  less — not  from  intention, 
but  purely  through  lack  of  adequate  organisation. 

"And  the  great  Charities,  what  of  them?"  said 
West. 

"  They  are  bound  hand  and  foot  in  the  red  tape 
of  routine.  They  must  enquire,  and  enquire,  and 
enquire,  before  they  will  help,  and,  while  they 
make  their  elaborate  diagnosis,  the  patient  dies. 
One  of  their  agents  met  Mercy  Lane  to-day  beside 
a  wretched  pile  of  rags  on  which  a  man — a  work- 
ingman — lay  dying.   Do  you  know  what  he  said  ?  " 

*'  I  can  guess,"  said  West. 

"  Yes,  you  know  the  sort  of  man,  no  doubt.  A 
little  dapper,  neatly-dressed  elderly  man  working 
on  a  salary,  drawn  from  the  revenues  of  charity. 


326     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

He  told  her  that  indiscriminate  relief  of  the  poor  was 
criminal.  He  grew  quite  hot  and  angry  over  it." 

"  And  what  did  she  say?  " 
"  She  repHed,  in  that  beautiful  calm  way  of  hers, 
that  Christ  told  us  not  to  give  only  to  the  deserving 
poor,  but  just  to  the  poor  anyway— to  him  that  had 
need.    And  she  asked  him  if  Christ  enquired  into 
the  character  of  the  dying  thief  before  He  blessed 
him,  or  if  the  good  Samaritan  waited  for  a  certifi- 
cate of  good  conduct  from  the  wounded  traveller 
before  he  bound  up  his  wounds?  " 
"And  the  man,  what  did  he  say?" 
"  He  -vaporated,"  said  Hume.    "  Slunk  away. 
Couldn'    At  his  head  up  to  her  sweet  eyes.  I 
don't  suppose  he  was  a  bad  man  either— only,  you 
see,  he  had  never  starved.   I  used  to  give  money, 
too,  to  the  society  that  paid  that  man  his  salary," 
he  added  regretfully. 
"And  you  don't  now?" 
"  N ot  I.   I've  learned  better.    But  that  brings  me 
to  my  point,  to  the  scheme  I  want  you  to  help  me  in." 
It  was  not  a  novel  scheme,  but  it  was  certainly 
.  conceived  upon  a  scale  that  no  one  else  had  at- 
tempted.   He  had  hired  Pat  Maloney's  dance-hall 
—it  would  seat  four  thousand  persons,— and  in  it 
he  proposed  to  give  a  great  supper  to  the  poor.  It 
was  to  be  like  Christ's  great  supper  in  the  parable; 
it  was  for  the  people  of  the  highways  and  the 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN  1*7 

hedges.  There  would  be  no  discrimination.  There 
wotild  be  no  tickets.  Let  all  come  who  would;  on 
Christmas  Eve  the  doors  should  stand  wide  to  the 
world,  the  one  credential  should  be  poverty.  Mercy 
Lane  should  preside.  She  should  give  the  food  to 
the  poor.  It  would  be  the  greatest  joy  in  life  for 
her,  and  she  had  earned  that  joy. 

"  As  for  the  money,"  he  concluded,  "  we  need  not 
discuss  that.  That  is  my  affair.  I've  been  finding 
out  for  a  long  time,  thanks  to  Mercy  Lane,  that  the 
only  real  pleasure  money  can  give  you  is  the  pleas- 
ure of  giving  it  away." 

West's  heart  glowed  at  the  words.  He  remem- 
bered what  Payson  Hume  had  been,  and  marvelled 
at  the  change.  And  in  that  change  he  found  the 
confirmation  of  his  hopes  for  the  New  Church.  It 
was  the  conviction  of  a  Christ  in  the  world,  living 
and  regnant,  which  had  changed  Hume  from  an 
unscrupulous  financial  huckster  into  a  man,  tender- 
hearted, self-forgetful,  laboriously  charitable;  here 
was  the  great  dynamic  of  all  social  reform. 

He  listened  eagerly  to  Hume's  enthusiastic  plans, 
and  approved  them.  What  more  Christian  work 
could  be  imagined  than  this  feeding  of  the  multi- 
tude? It  was  the  work  which  Christ  Himself  so 
often  did;  the  happiest  hours  in  all  the  Master's 
life  were  surely  these,  when  grateful  multitudes  sat 
upon  the  green  grass  in  companies,  and  ate  the 


328     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

bread  which  He  had  blessed,  while  He  moved  from 

group  to  group,  animating  each  in  turn  with  a  new 
si.irit  of  hope  and  happiness.  Strange  how  such 
acts  had  been  forgotten,  or  tacitly  ignored!  Ah, 
this  was  the  eternal  irony  of  Christianity— doctrines 
remembered,  cliarity  forgotten,  in  spite  of  Christ's 
own  solemn  declaration  that  to  feed  the  hungry  and 
clothe  the  naked  counted  for  far  more  with  God 
than  all  vain  orthodoxies  of  belief  and  worship. 

So  the  scheme  was  settled,  and  even  Pat  Maloney 
approved  it :  for  ever  since  the  night  of  the  satuma- 
h;i  Mahjuey  had  been  an  altered  man.   He  also  had 
seen  the  strange  Man  standing  at  the  door,  sad 
and  reproachful,  on  that  memorable  night;  and  he 
had  heard  next  day  the  story  of  how  the  same  Man 
had  appeared  in  the  cold  dawn  to  the  outcasts  in  the 
cellar.    The  story  had  lost  nothing  in  the  telling. 
It  had  put  on  the  wonder  and  the  mystery  of  a 
legend.   And  deep  down  in  the  gross  nature  of  Pat 
Maloney  a  fibre  of  superstition  stirred,  and  he  was 
afraid.    He  remembered  with  horror  how  he  had 
carried  the  banner  with  the  reversed  Cross.  He 
caught  eagerly  at  the  idea  that  there  might  be  some 
element  of  atonement  for  his  sacrilege  in  this 
scheme  of  a  Christmas  Eve  dinner  to  the  hungry 
He  refused  to  take  his  hire  of  the  dance-hall:  no. 
he  would  gix    die  hall  without  price,— perhaps  God 
would  put  that  one  good  act  to  his  credit,  and  not 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN  3^9 

be  too  hftrd  upon  him  for  the  hundred  evil  acts 
which  he  remembered  with  remorse.  Poor  felbw, 
he  had  the  crudest  notions  of  religion;  they  con- 
sisted almost  wholly  of  a  lively  dread  of  that  pur- 
gatory which  had  been  painted  on  his  mind  in  child- 
hood in  a  hundred  lurid  flame-pictures;  but  his 
good  angel  surely  smiled  on  him  when  he  said  to 
Hume :  "  No,  sir,  I'll  not  take  a  continental.  You're 
welcome  to  the  hall,  and  may  all  the  holy  saints 
bless  you,  sir,  for  your  good  thought." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  sa!:*  Hume,  as 
he  reported  Pat  Maloney's  conduct  to    ' '  t 

"  I  think,"  said  West,  "  that  our  New  Church  has 
got  another  member." 

"Yes,"  Hume  replied,  with  a  thought  fulness  un- 
usual with  him;  "  we  all  know  the  vices  of  the  vir- 
tuous, but  I  begin  to  see  that  there  are  virtues  in  the 
vicious." 

And  so  at  last  Christmas  Eve  came;  biting  cold, 
with  a  sky  of  blue  ice,  and  a  wind  blowing  straight 

from  the  Arctic. 

West  awoke  very  early,  conscious  of  a  strange  com- 
motion in  his  thought.  A  dream  within  a  dream 
had  visited  him,  wholly  indefinable,  yet  eminently 
joyous.    He  tried  in  vain  to  grasp  its  elusive  clues. 

There  was  a  sense  of  elation,  of  relief ;  of  some- 
thing fulfilled;  of  the  march  of  dim  hosts,  lost  in 
the  dust  of  distance,  of  some  tremendous  battle 


330     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

won,  and  of  trumpets  blowing  from  secret  towers, 
and  of  a  new  time  at  hand.  There  had  been  some 
decisive  conflict  and  defeat,  5ome  immeasurable 
conquest,  but  what  he  could  not  tell.  Only  it  seemed 
as  though  all  his  life  had  waited  for  this  hour; 
all  the  world  had  waited  for  it,  too;  it  was  the 
consummating  hour  of  Time  itself,  and  it  was  the 
trampling  of  the  Ages  that  he  heard  as  they  with- 
drew, the  proclamation  of  some  new  birth  of  Time 
which  echoed  from  those  unseen  trumpets. 

And  then  he  remembered  that  to-morrow  was 
Christmas,  when  He  had  come  who  changed  all 
the  courses  of  time;  ah,  that  He  might  come  again! 

He  dressed  rapidly,  and  went  immediately  to  Pat 
Maloney's  dance-hall. 

Already  the  crowd  had  gathered.  And  such  a 
crowd;  people  of  all  nationalities,  but  alike  in  their 
patient  wretchedness;  old  men  who  had  knocked  too 
late  at  the  door  of  opportunity,  gaunt  and  silent; 
mothers  with  children  in  their  arms;  young  girls, 
wan  with  hunger;  mere  lads,  with  the  faces  of  ma- 
ture men;  broken  clerks  and  out-of-works,  the  mere 
refuse  of  the  great  industrial  system  which  makes 
one  millionaire  and  a  thousand  drudges;  a  Pente- 
cost of  the  Poor,  speaking  in  many  tongues,  gath- 
ered from  every  land,  with  the  pale  flame  of  hunger 
seated  on  each  brow,  and  the  one  dream  in  all 
those  eyes  the  dream  of  bread.  Thousands  of  them, 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN      33 » 


like  a  grey  sea,  whose  waves  are  full  of  eyes! 
Thousands  who  asked  but  one  thing  of  the  worid, 
the  mere  right  to  live!  And  then  the  door  of  the 
dance-hall  slowly  rolled  back,  and  the  great  march 
past  of  the  disinherited  began.  Pat  Maloney  stood 
at  the  door,  the  guardian  of  order.  His  face  was 
radiant.  And  as  the  crowd  passed  him,  cries  of 
pleasure  and  astonishment  were  heard.  For  the  vast 
hall  was  transformed  into  a  forest  of  Christmas  ver- 
dure, and  the  distant  platform  was  a  bank  of  costly 
roses.  Behind  that  barrier  of  roses  stood  a  solitary 
woman,  Mercy  Lane.  Pale  and  sweet  and  silent  she 
stood  there,  the  very  Angel  of  a  Christmas  Pity. 

And  then  the  long  march  past !  The  crowd  be- 
came a  sinuous  file,  moving  slowly  toward  the 
woman  who  smiled  behind  the  roses.  Hours 
passed;  the  file  seemed  interminable.  To  each,  as 
he  came,  she  handed  a  full  supply  of  food,  enough 
for  more  than  the  feast  of  a  single  day.  And  to 
each  she  speke  some  kind  and  gentle  word,  and 
that  was  for  many  the  best  gift  of  all.  A  woman 
kissed  her  hand ;  and  then,  as  though  a  law  had  been 
promulgated  silently,  the  example  became  general. 

"  You  see,  I  know  her,"  said  the  woman,  as  she 
moved  away.  "  She  nursed  my  man  when  he  was 
dying." 

It  was  an  enviable  distinction.  She  had  known 
Mercy  Lane. 


332     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Some  of  the  women  even  kissed  the  hem  of  her 
garment.  She  bltished,  and  would  have  withdrawn 
from  their  fond  eagerness  of  love. 

"Was  ever  woman  so  loved?"  thought  Hume, 
as  he  watched  the  scene  with  tears. 

"  You  must  not  thank  me,"  she  said.  "  Thank 
him.   He  did  it  all." 

And  then  it  was  Hume's  turn  to  withdra^;. 

"Can't  I  help  you,  miss?"  said  Pat  Maloney. 
"  You'll  be  tired  out.  There  are  thousands  more 
of  'em." 

"No:  I  could  never  tire  of  this  work,"  she  re- 
plied, with  a  smile.  "  And,  besides,  they  seem  to 
like  me  to  give  them  their  portions." 

"  Ah,  it's  because  you  give  yourself  with  them, 
miss.   May  the  holy  saints  bless  you  for  it  this  day." 

But  as  the  afternoon  wore  on,  weariness  grew 
upon  her,  and  she  was  obliged  to  sit.  Still  she  spoke 
to  each,  the  briefest  word  sometimes,  and  still  they 
kissed  her  hand. 

It  was  five  o'clock;  the  work  was  not  half-done. 
Outside  the  air  was  darkened,  and  a  great  tempest 
had  begun  to  rage  across  the  city. 

Something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  electric 
light.  The  hall,  which  should  have  blazed  with 
radiance,  was  in  semi-darkness.  A  large  oil-lamp, 
suddenly  improvised,  shone  above  the  platform,  illu- 
minating the  pale,  tired  face  of  Mercy  Lane;  it 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN  333 


was  the  only  light  in  that  great  space,  and  it  em- 
phasised the  gloom.  The  thronging  faces  showed 
pale  in  that  immensity  of  shadow.  The  wind 
threshed  along  the  roof  of  the  hall,  a  peal  of  thun- 
der shook  the  building,  and  a  flash  of  lightning, 
like  the  swift  thrust  of  a  flaming  sword,  cut  across 
the  darkness. 

The  crowd  showed  symptoms  of  alarm.  Mercy 
Lane  rose,  and,  standing  in  the  light  of  the  lamp, 
began  to  speak.  She  had  a  beautiful  voice,  dear 
and  deep,  full  of  exquisite  vibrations,  a  voice  which 
had  a  curious  and  quite  unusual  power  of  touching 
the  emotions. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  she  said.  "  There  is  no 
cause  for  fear." 

And  then  she  became  aware,  all  at  once,  of  some 
one  who  stood  beside  her  on  the  platform;  a  taU 
Man,  dressed  in  dark  flowing  raiment,  with  dark 
hair  falling  on  His  shoulders,  and  a  pale  face  with 
intense  sad  eyes. 

He  looked  round  him  silently,  and  the  crowd 
surged  closer  to  the  platform,  drawn  by  the  glance 
of  those  intense  sad  eyes.  And,  as  they  watched, 
it  seemed  the  sadness  disappeared;  a  slow  smile 
grew  like  a  gradual  dawn  upon  His  face,  and  a  faint 
answering  light  of  confidence  appeared  upon  the 
faces  of  the  crowd.  It  was  as  though  a  great  happi- 
ness had  come  to  each,  they  knew  not  how  nor  why. 


334     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

He  spoke  at  last,  and  if  Mercy  Lane's  voice 
was  sweet,  His  was  infinitely  sweeter.  It  was  like 
nothing  human,  so  soft,  so  exquisitely  gentle  was 
it.  Love  breathed  in  it,  pity,  infinite  compassion, 
and  a  power  not  less  infinite ;  it  was  a  winged  voice 
that  entered  into  the  secret  places  of  each  heart; 
and  at  its  sound  the  doors  of  all  hearts  flew  open. 

"  Pat  Maloney,  come  here." 

The  big  bartender  stood  open-mouthed  and  trem- 
bling. 

"Come!"  said  the  Man. 
He  came  slowly,  and  fell  upon  his  knees  at  the 
Stranger's  feet. 

"  You  have  been  an  evil  man.   You  have  done 

much  wrong.    Is  it  not  so?" 

*'  Yes,  Sir,"  sobbed  Maloney. 

"  But  on  this  day  you  have  done  well,  and  for 
the  sake  of  this  day  all  the  others  are  forgiven. 
For  on  this  day  you  have  had  compassion  on  the 
poor,  and  from  this  day  you  shall  unwind  the  snare 
of  past  evil,  thread  by  thread.  And  men  shall  love 
you — you  whom  they  hated." 

His  hand  rested  on  Maloney's  bowed  head,  and, 
with  it  still  resting  there,  He  turned  to  the  crowd 
and  said :  "  Comrades,  listen.  A  Man  came  to  earth 
long  ago,  upon  this  very  night.  He  was  born  poor 
and  lowly.  He  lived  among  the  poor  and  lowly  all 
His  life.   He  did  this  by  choice,  because  He  loved 


THE  NEW  WORLD  IS  BORN  335 


them,  and  because  He  wished  to  teach  others  how 
to  love  them.    Some  men  learned  the  lesson — a 

few;  many  rejected  it  and  Him;  so  those  who  re- 
jected Him  at  last  slew  Him,  and  He  died.  But 
He  died  knowing  that  the  truth  He  taught  could 
never  be  forgotten  wholly.  It  has  not  been  for- 
gotten, though  many  centuries  of  crime  and  guilt 
have  swept  across  the  world.  The  time  has  come 
when  that  lesson  must  be  learned  anew.  The  world 
is  tired  of  wrong  and  of  injustice.  It  is  tired  of  a 
selfish  way  of  life  which  profits  no  one.  But  from 
this  hour  a  new  world  is  born.  Henceforth,  justice 
shall  reign  where  wrong  has  triumphed.  Hence- 
forth, each  shall  share  the  bounties  of  the  earth  with 
all,  and  know  that  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than 
to  receive.  For  the  Man  they  slew  could  not  die, 
because  He  was  the  Truth,  and  truth  can  never 
die.  You  know  His  name.  Not  one  of  you  who 
has  not  thought  with  tenderness  of  the  Babe  bom 
to-night  among  those  far-off  hills  of  Bethlehem. 
You  know  how  He  lived.  Follow  Him.  This  is 
the  secret  of  life.  Behold  the  world  of  wrong  and 
of  unkindness  ends  to-night.  A  new  world  is  born, 
and  love  is  justified." 

He  stood  gazing  into  the  faces  of  the  crowd. 

"  I  go  away,  but  not  for  long,"  He  said.  "  Think 
of  Me  often;  I  shall  hear  your  thought.  Build  up 
the  new  world,  and  it  may  be  your  hands  shall  meet 


I'ff  If 


336     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

Mine  as  you  toil.  There  are  those  who  shall  teach 
you  how." 

*'  Master ! "  said  Mercy  Lane. 

She  knelt  at  His  feet  beside  Pat  Maloney.  He 
touched  her  bowed  head  with  an  infinite  gentleness, 
and  so  He  stood  a  moment,  between  her  and  the 
penitent  saloon-ki  .per,  a  hand  upon  the  head  of  each. 

The  crowd  watched  in  silence }  then,  as  by  a  com- 
mon instinct,  they  also  knelt. 
His  face  grew  transfigured. 
"  The  New  World  is  bom,"  He  said.  "  It  is 
bom,  as  all  things  are  born,  in  anguish.  But  be 
not  afraid.  Sorrow  may  endure  for  a  night,  but 
Joy  Cometh  in  the  Morning." 

And  then  an  awful  wave  of  motion  ran  along 
the  solid  ground.  It  was  as  though  a  sea  moved 
beneath  their  feet.  The  vast  hall,  with  all  its  multi- 
tude of  men  and  women,  swung  slowly  to  and  fro. 

The  storm  had  ceased.  Out  of  a  dear  heaven  the 
moon  shone  forth,  and  the  pale  light  filled  the  hall, 
washing  with  its  wave  of  silver  all  those  awe- 
stricken  faces.  Mercy  Lane,  still  kneeling,  said, 
"  Master,  Master !  "    But  He  was  gone. 

Outside  the  hall  wild  cries  and  the  noise  of 
trampling  feet  were  heard.  The  earthquake  had 
smitten  the  city.  But  within  the  hall,  there  was 
awe,  but  not  alarm;  there  a  Voice  had  spoken,  which 
long  ago  the  winds  and  the  seas  cdwyed. 


XIX 

THE  FALLEN  CHURCH 

THE  earthquake  had  come!  It  had  been 
long  predictetl.  but  the  prophet  of  dis- 
aster finds  no  disciples  in  the  times  of 
peace.  Such  a  fate  might  happen  to  a  San  Fran- 
cisco, itself  a  bubble  of  strange  exotic  life  arisen 
from  the  sea,  but  to  a  New  York,  the  city  impreg- 
nable, built  upon  the  solid  rock,  this  was  impossi- 
ble !  New  York,  the  final  expression  of  man's  Ti- 
tanic power;  this  city  of  heaven-daring  towers,  bas- 
tioned  in  solid  might  against  the  firmament,  whose 
foundations  were  interlocked  with  root  of  steel  to 
the  fibres  of  the  living  rock;  this  city  veined  with 
fire  kindled  by  the  hands  of  man,  topped  with  proud 
flame,  flaring  like  a  torch  across  the  seas;  this  city 
to  which  all  nations  brought  their  tribute,  at  whose 
feet  the  commerce  of  the  world  was  gathered,  from 
whose  wharves  ran  the  sentient  filaments  along 
which  the  anxieties  and  hopes  of  all  the  earth 
throbbed  and  flashed — it  was  a  thing  monstrous  and 
incredible  that  in  a  single  hour  the  breath  of  Ruin 
should  have  made  it  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre;  yet 

337 


338     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

so  it  was.   The  impregnable  city  had  fallen  like  a 
house  of  cards  shaken  by  a  careless  finger.  Alas! 
for  "  the  great  city,  she  that  was  arrayed  in  fine 
linen,  and  purple,  and  scarlet,  and  decked  with  gold 
and  precious  stones  and  pearl.  For  in  one  hour  so 
great  riches  is  made  desolate.    And  every  ship- 
master, and  any  one  that  saileth  any  whither,  and 
mariners,  and  as  many  as  gain  their  living  by  sea, 
stood  afar  off  and  cried  out  as  they  saw  the  smoke 
of  her  burning,  saying.  What  city  is  like  tiie  great 
city?    And  they  cast  dust  on  their  heads,  and 
cried,  weeping  and  mourning,  saying.  Woe,  woe, 
the  great  city,  wherein  all  that  had  their  ships  in  the 
sea  were  made  rich  by  reason  of  her  costliness,  for 
in  one  hour  is  she  made  desolate ! " 

When  the  awed  crowd  passed  out  of  Pat 
Maloney's  dance-hall,  they  stepped  into  an  unknown 
world.   An  immense  cloud  of  dust  lay  like  a  black 
fog  above  the  city.    The  street  lights  were  extin- 
guished. Deep  fissures  ran  across  the  streets.  The 
wharves  were  on  fire,  and  in  a  few  moments  the 
dust-cloud  was  as  red  as  blood.  And  then,  in  that 
awful  light,  the  full  dimensions  of  the  great  catas- 
trophe became  apparent.  Of  many  a  proud  build- 
ing, all  that  was  left  was  a  single  toppling  wall. 
Mountains  of  ruin  lay  across  the  streets.  Over 
these   monstrous   barricades   men   and  women 
swarmed  in  aimless  flight.    "The  fire!"  they 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH 


339 


cried,  and  fled.  They  left  the  wounded  where  they 
lay;  the  city  was  like  a  battlefield  in  the  m(»nent  of 
defeat  and  flight. 

The  whole  city  must  have  perished,  had  not  the 
sea  risen  in  a  great  tidal  wave,  and  extinguished  the 
burning  wharves.  It  was  a  night  of  terror  such 
as  earth  had  rarely  known.  But  to  these  men  and 
women,  coming  from  the  dance-hall,  the  sense  of 
terror  was  lost  in  solemn  wonder.  For,  while  a 
thousand  churches  were  destroyed,  the  dance-hal! 
remained  uninjured.  The  lamp  still  burned  steadily 
above  the  platform  with  its  bank  of  roses.  And  still 
the  air  seemed  to  vibrate  with  the  tones  of  that 
Voice  which  had  proclaimed  the  birth  of  a  New 
World,  that  Voice  at  once  so  daring  and  so 
tranquil. 

The  dance-hall  was  instantly  transformed  into  a 
hospital. 

"  He  said  the  New  World  would  be  bom  in  an- 
guish," sighed  Mercy  Lane. 

As  the  wounded  were  brought  in  one  by  one,  she 
received  them.  Among  the  first  was  the  poor  out- 
cast woman,  the  Magdalene  of  the  Cellar.  She  was 
visibly  dying,  but  quite  conscious.  Within  her  arms 
she  held  a  little  child. 

"He  ain't  hurt,  is  he?"  said  the  dying 
woman. 

"  No,  he  is  asleep.   The  child  is  uidturt." 


340     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  I  got  it  good  and  hard,  didn't  I  ?  But  I  don't 
care,  if  the  child's  all  right." 

"  Let  me  take  the  child,"  said  Mercy. 

"  No,  not  till  I'm  gone.  He's  all  I  have  to  love. 
I  never  had  a  child  of  my  own." 

Mercy  kissed  the  woman's  lips,  and  smoothed  the 
tangled  hair. 

"  No  one  has  done  that  to  me  since  I  was  a  little 
girl,"  she  said.  "You're  a  good  woman,  ain't 
you?" 

"  I  have  tried  to  be,"  said  Mercy  softly. 
"  Yet  you  kissed  me.   And  I'm  a  bad  woman. 
Why  did  you  do  it?" 
"  Because  I  love  you." 

She  lay  silent  some  moments,  meditating  that 

reply. 

"  Read  me  something,  will  you?  Something 
about  Him  who  gave  me  the  child." 

Mercy  knelt  beside  her,  and  began  to  read  the 
immortal  story  of  Jesus  in  the  house  of  Simon  the 
Pharisee.  When  she  finished,  the  woman  said: 
"Do  you  think  if  I  kissed  His  feet  He'd  for- 
give me?  She  was  a  woman  like  me,  wasn't 
she?" 

"  Yes,  like  you." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  like  to  wipe  His  feet  with  my 
hair,  it  ain't  fit." 

Her  eyes  wandered  towards  the  end  of  the  room 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH 


341 


where  the  lamp  still  burned  above  the  bank  of 
flowers. 

"Them's  roses,  ain't  they?  There  used  to  be 
roses  in  my  mother's  garden,  I  remember.  I'd  like 
to  wipe  His  feet  with  roses.  My  hair  ain't  fit." 

Mercy  brought  a  great  bunch  of  roses  and  laid 
them  by  the  woman's  shoulder. 

She  turned  her  face  towards  them,  and  said: 
"My,  ain't  they  sweet.  They  kind  of  make  me 
feel  like  I  was  home  again." 

She  spoke  only  once  after  that. 

"I  saw  the  beam  falling,"  she  said,  "and  I 
couldn't  get  away.  It  hurt  me  dreadful,  but  it 
didn't  hurt  the  child.  I  took  care  it  shouldn't.  I 
hope  Him  as  gave  me  the  child  will  be  pleased 
at  that." 

"  Who  was  it  gave  you  the  child  ?  "  said  Mercy. 
"  I  guess  it  was  Him  what  you  read  about.  Him 
whose  feet  I'd  like  to  kiss." 
"  Jesus?  "  said  Mercy,  in  a  whisper. 
"Yes.  That's  Him. 


Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild 
Loo'-  t<)  }n  a  little  child. 
Pity  n.y  simplicity. 
Suffer  me  to  come  to  Thee." 


It  was  no  doubt  the  prayer  she  had  learned  long 
years  ago  a:>  a  cliilJ  at  her  mother's  knee.   In  it  she 


34*     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


took  her  farewell  of  life  A  moment  later  ATercy 
drew  the  sleeping  child  (ronx  her  rigid  arms. 

The  ]  »\vn  vas  breaking.  The  immense  t  louJ 
of  dust  was  rolling  far  out  to  se:*  A  faint  wash 
of  purpli;  diffused  itself  in  the  bank  of  haze;  it 
thinned  into  rippling  gold,  and  then  the  sun  aroie. 
An  infinite  tr  iquillity  lay  on  the  sea. 

Men  '.vept  lor  joy  to  welcome  the  fami  ar  light. 
They  had  never  ihuas;,'ht  "^^  see  the  sun  ag;i  n.  They 
stood  with  haggaid  faces,  silent,  watching  the  grad- 
ual unfolding  of  the  day.  T!ie  world  stili  existed, 
and  it  seemed  incrediLic.  They  gazed  around  them, 
wcHidering  and  grateful.  Aad  then  ffxmi  om  rtaiwd 
belfry — all  that  was  left  oi  a  great  dttu'cb — a  bdl 
began  to  clang  joyotu^,  and  men  remembered  it 
was  Giristmas  Day. 

Christmas  Day,  when  lo;ig  ago  ''^e  world's  Hope 
was  born;  and  what  ha  1  this  day  Drought?  It  ha  ' 
come  not  with  choiring  hosts  uf  angels;  but  with 
Angels  of  Destructiou,  whose  wings  were  h  k, 
and  from  whose  bosom  dropped  a  rain  of  re 
upon  the  earth.  And  He  had  come,  too;  nmn  k  ew 
it  now.  All  the  prc^[BOStications  of  the  ages  •  ere 
fulfilled;  all  those  many  agita  ons  of  the  prev  tus 
months  were  explained.  And.  as  men  stood  ariid 
the  ruins,  they  began  tc  unc'  lano'  the  niear  ^ 
of  these  tilings,  i  hey  knew  nat  m  a  ^^le  nii  t 
the  old  world  had  passed  aw  a       li.  y  uiust  juiid 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH  343 

a  cw,  ui-oth  r  be;t  world.  All  things  had  been 
shaken  that  ihat  vh.  h  could  not  ke  ahaken  should 
remain. 

GtiuluaUy  one  f&ct,  significant  aad  straage,  took 

possession  of  nwn'  mi  ids — the  Church  wa.-»  g  «l 
Of  a  1  thes*.  nany  tmi.din,  red  to  religion, 
;  ,r.       fii,       ne  t  -.1  another.  Some 

w-  ic     ere  h  ^    s  ui  s  had  vast  fissur« 

ih  the)  walls;  mi  01  f  sin;  ng  men  anu 
sin?         unit-M      ul'    *  ni         no  more. 

L  it  'at  vlaio  das  remaii.  i  «oinjtired, 
inunun*"  mad  4  <townfall.    And  it  wa« 

then  -a.   H     *d  last  been  swn;  there,  where  thr 
hungry  h^    .    ^ed,  the  poor  consoled,  and  where 
evi  1  now  :    rcv  Lane  still  moved  amid  tl»  i 
•cd  v«.  :th     ding  in  her  tuuch! 
n''l\  is  a  pa  ib1<-,  full  of  suggestion 

the  fi  »Ve     reau  1?  clearly.    Was  not  Ui 

dance         vith  ii    nanifest  piety  of  love  and  h^ 
alne^^..  t  ^  very  t>pc  of  that  New  Church  of  whiA 
I    had  '  eanKd?  Was  not  this  its  microconn? 

The  be^  hati  always  seen  it,  but  afar  off,  as  an 
aui'  Used  ideal.  Between  them  and  it  arose  for- 
mi<I  »r  uarriers,  which  none  Luc  the  most  daring 
s  nianity  had  found  the  strength  to  chal- 

kn^  lihe  .  had  reluctantly  submitted  to  tra- 

ditiui,^  v\  ich  .hey  could  not  break.  Yet  each  knew, 
all  the  best  men  knew,  that  the  Church,  as  it  ex- 


344     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

isted,  had  become  the  mausoleum  of  the  Christ-idea, 

not  the  organ  of  its  true  expression.  Like  the 
ancient  Pharisees  this  Church  had  tithed  their  mint 
and  annin,  but  had  forgotten  mercy  and  the  love  of 
God.  It  had  worshipped ;  it  had  not  worked.  It  had 
manufactured  sentiment;  it  had  not  .served.  Yet, 
as  if  to  prove  that  amid  all  its  long  apostasies  some- 
thing imperishable  subsisted  at  its  root,  that  root 
had  never  failed  from  time  to  time  to  cast  up  new 
flowers  of  fairest  life.  It  had  produced  a  Mercy 
Lane,  and  thousands  like  her.  And  in  her  West 
saw  the  perfect  type  of  that  which  was  to  be.  She 
was  the  Priest^  is  of  the  future,  her  character  the 
final  synthesis  of  all  religion. 

In  crises  of  supreme  emotion  thought  is  swift;  it 
seemed  to  West  that  his  whole  life  passed  before 
him  in  those  few  moments  while  he  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  the  dance-hall,  watching  the  dawn  rise 
upon  the  ruined  city.  He  saw  it  not  in  its  events, 
but  in  its  underlying  principles.  He  saw  that  he 
was  by  instinct  one  of  those  who  stood  aloof  from 
the  gross  realities  of  life.  He  had  been  a  looker-on. 
It  was  because  he  had  been  a  looker-on  that  his 
first  desires  had  been  toward  the  world  of  art. 
He  wanted  not  to  engage  himself  in  the  storm  of 
action,  but  to  watch  it,  to  describe  it,  to  catch  its 
passing  gloom  and  grandeur.  His  love  of  litera- 
ture was  but  a  working  out  of  the  same  spirit. 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH  345 


Here  was  a  world  within  the  world,  securely 
guarded,  from  whose  high  battlements  he  could  look 
out  upon  the  movements  of  ordinary  men  with  a 
species  of  benign  commiseration.  He  had  had  no 
desire  to  share  those  movements.  To  watch  them 
from  afar,  to  criticise  and  at  times  to  analyse  them, 
to  gratify  his  artistic  sense  by  the  perception  of 
their  passing  tragedy  or  pathos — that  was  the  Hmit 
of  his  purpose.  He  had  recalled  to  himself  the  lives 
of  poets  and  of  artists,  those  detached  and  infinitely 
desirable  existences,  which  were  passed  in  long 
dreams  of  h.^.-mony  and  colour,  and  he  had  been 
proud  to  call  himself  of  their  company.  To  be  a 
looker-on,  to  see  all  things  like  a  pageant,  to 
behold  but  not  to  share  the  comnion  human 
strife,  that  had  seemed  to  him  the  wisest  use  of 
life. 

He  had  entered  the  ministry  of  the  Christian 
Church,  but  still  as  a  lo(^r-on.  Here,  also,  was  a 
world  within  the  world,  securely  guarded;  a  life 
of  shelter  and  detachment.  Bom  seven  centuries 
earlier  he  would  have  dwelt  within  the  high  walls 
of  a  monastery,  a  scholar  in  a  great  library,  a  stu- 
dent in  a  quiet  cell  with  a  window  opening  upon 
a  garden,  inhaling  with  the  flowers  the  subtle  per- 
fume of  religion,  exhilarated  by  the  colour  and  the 
fairness  of  those  forms  of  ceremonial  through 
whkh  the  poetry  of  faith  became  vocal,  delicately 


346     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

tangible.  In  effect  he  had  really  lived  such  a  life. 
He  had  moved  amid  pleasant  people  and  pursuits; 
he  had  followed  the  bent  of  inclination;  his  life 
had  been  immaculately  cloistral.  Of  the  real  na- 
ture of  human  life  he  had  known  nothing.  And, 
again,  he  had  not  wished  to  know  anything.  The 
immense  conflicts  of  men  in  the  war  of  greed  and 
of  ambition,  the  enormous  cruelties  they  inflicted  on 
each  other  in  this  war,  the  agony,  the  despair,  the 
fierce  valour  of  this  trampling  host — in  all  this  he 
had  had  no  real  interest ;  it  had  seemed  to  him  sordid 
and  vulgar;  it  was  at  most  a  spectacle  to  be  watched 
with  varying  degrees  of  pity  and  astonishment.  It 
had  not  disturbed  his  calm.  He  had  never  felt  the 
least  desire  to  plunge  into  the  mad  strife,  to  take 
his  part,  to  do  what  was  in  him  to  turn  the  tide  of 
battle  to  some  better  social  purpose.  No;  in  reli- 
gion also  he  had  been  a  looker-on. 

And  he  saw  further  that  in  all  this  he  had  been 
but  a  type  of  many  men,  a  type  of  the  Church 
itself.  For  the  Church  also  had  been  a  looker-on. 
Its  ministers  had  too  often  stood  aloof  from  the 
sordid  realities  of  life.  They  could  scarcely  avoid 
such  a  spirit,  for  everything  in  their  position  and 
environment  developed  it.  Was  it  not  their  boast 
that  they  were  separ.itocl  men,  living  separated 
lives  ?  It  was  nothing  to  the  purpose  to  reply  that  in 
these  separated  lives  much  of  jiersonal  goodness 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH 


347 


was  develqwd;  the  same  thing  might  have  been  said 
of  hundreds  of  cloistral  lives  which  spent  them- 
selves within  the  walb  of  monasteries,  in  the  ages 
when  the  world  was  most  corrupt.  But  Christ's 
was  not  a  separated  life.  He  moved  freely  among 
the  people,  ate  and  drank  with  publicans  and  sin- 
ners, touched  real  life  at  all  points,  suffered  all  that 
common  men  endured,  all  their  poverty  and  toil, 
all  their  disabilities  and  unmerited  indignities,  and 
thus  was  ont  with  them.  That  was  where  His 
power  lay;  He  was  not  a  looker-on,  He  was  one 
with  men. 

That  was  where  the  Church  had  failed,  it  had 
lost  the  democratic  spirit.  It  had  produced  for 
its  service  a  specialised  kind  of  man,  bred  in  col- 
leges and  seminaries,  the  exponent  of  thoughts  and 
views,  but  out  oi  touch  with  common  life.  It  had 
practically  forbidden  these  men  that  knowledge 
of  coaanoa  life  which  comes  through  the  onnrade- 
ship  of  toil,  the  strife  of  politics,  the  knowledge 
at  first  hand  of  inferior  social  conditions.  The  re- 
sult was  everywhere  apparent.  To  ordinary  men 
the  minister  appeared  one  who  stood  upon  a  re- 
mote height,  uttering  messages  which  were  devoid 
of  p'  tical  and  human  interest.  The  Church  had 
rt- :  i  the  great  causes  of  common  human  jus- 
tice ^  negligible;  in  turn  the  world  had  gone  upon 
its  way,  a^ing  no  guidance  of  the  Churci.,  and 


jPOtXNi  -l    ^-^  P'XCJ. 


348     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


treating  it  as  a  negligible  factor  in  society.  This 
is  what  came  of  being  a  looker-on. 

And  then,  with  a  swift  rebound,  his  thoughts 
dwelt  on  Mercy  Lane.  He  gazed  upon  her  with 
tear-filled  eyes  as  she  moved  among  the  sufferers  in 
the  dance-hall,  in  her  indefatigable  pity,  and  saw 
how  patient  eyes  followed  her  with  tender  trust, 
and  how  tortured  lips  kissed  the  very  hem  of  her 
garment  as  she  stooped  above  them.  He  remem- 
bered, too,  how  he  had  once  regarded  her:  how 
her  work  had  seemed  much  inferior  to  his,  how  he 
had  paid  little  attention  to  her,  how  she  had  a  hun- 
dred times  entered  his  library  to  take  the  dole  he 
gave  her,  and  had  gone  upon  her  way,  meek  and 
silent,  to  engage  herself  in  toils  which  he  had  not 
so  much  as  wish  to  understand.  And  he  saw 
now  how  immeasurably  superior  she  was  to  him. 
She  rose  far  above  him,  a  woman  the  very  latchet 
of  whose  shoes  he  was  unworthy  to  unkxMe.  And 
it  was  borne  in  upon  hun  that,  while  he  dreamed 
of  a  New  Church,  that  Church  had  already  been 
established  by  Mercy  Lane.  She  had  both  seized 
and  exemplified  its  meaning  and  its  spirit.  For 
she  was  not  a  looker-on.  She  did  not  philosophise 
about  things,  but  acted  on  them  by  the  living  force 
of  service  and  compassion.  And  surely  the  pres- 
ence of  that  strange  Master,  who  chose  this  dance- 
hall  filled  with  the  unfortunate  as  the  scene  of  His 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH  349 


last  appearance  and  final  message  to  the  world, 
was  His  visible  approval  of  her  character  and  work. 
It  was  as  though  He  had  said,  "  Henceforth,  My 
temple  is  with  the  poor;  here  shall  My  Church  be 
found,  and  they  who  love  Me  shall 

Give  themselves  for  the  sake  of  others, 
Themselves  to  their  neighbours  lending, 
See  their  Lord  in  their  suffering  brothers, 
And  not  in  the  clouds  descending." 

Yes;  that  was  His  Christmas  message  to  mankind. 
The  Church  had  fallen,  but  only  that  Church  which 
man  had  built;  in  the  same  instant  the  New  Church 
had  risen  which  was  indestructible. 

A  spirit  of  great  gladness  filled  his  heart  All 
bitter  thoughts  dep^ed  from  him;  there  remained 
only  a  sense  of  innermost  tranquillity.  That  which 
had  passed  away  had  but  made  room  for  some- 
thing better,  and  that  solitary  bell,  ringing  from  the 
ruined  belfry,  proclaimed  the  Christmas  message 
that  once  more  God  had  visited  His  children,  and 
that  with  the  world  it  was  forever  and  forever  well. 

He  gazed  once  more  into  the  dance-hall.  The 
light  of  the  solitary  lamp  was  dimmed  by  the  ad- 
vancing dawn.  Mercy  Lane,  tired  out  with  the 
tragic  night,  sat  against  the  bank  of  roses,  her 
head  bowed  upon  her  ann,  and  upon  her  bosom 
lay  a  sleeping  child.    He  bowed  his  head  before 


350     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 


that  picture.  It  was  so,  long  ago,  that  a  weary 
woman  sat  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Pyramids, 

with  the  Hope  of  the  race  within  her  arms,  an  in- 
different or  hostile  world  around  her.  Along  the 
road  passed  the  pomp  of  Rome  and  Egypt,  sol- 
diers shining  in  their  gilded  armour,  prefects  and 
tetrarchs  robed  in  purple,  little  thinking  that  she 
would  be  remembered  when  they  and  all  their 
glories  had  crumbled  into  dust.  She,  in  her  adora- 
ble divine  meekness,  had  survived  them  all;  they 
with  brazen  feet  had  marched  into  oyivion,  they 
and  the  world  of  pride  they  represented,  but  in 
her  heart-beats  the  future  throbbed,  and  the  Child 
within  her  arms  was  to  prove  the  only  abiding 
conqueror  of  men.  Even  so  he  saw  Mercy  Lane, 
and  that  which  lay  within  her  bosom  was  the  Future 
of  the  World, 

Down  the  street  moved  three  men  he  knew,  the 
Cardinal,  Field,  and  Stockmar. 

They  approached  him  silently,  each  absorbed  in 
awful  meditation.  The  Cardinal  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  I  have  come  to  be  of  help,"  he  said.  "  Where 
are  the  wounded  ?  " 

West  pointed  him  to  the  rows  of  sufferers  in  the 
dance-hall. 

"  They  are  not  without  hdp,"  he  said. 

"  Alas  I "  said  the  Cardinal.  "  I  am  deprived  of 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH         35 « 


the  proper  means  to  render  them  the  last  (rffices  of 
the  Church.   All  is  swept  away— all." 
"  You  bring  yourself,  that  is  enough,"  said  West, 
The  Cardinal  entered  the  hall.    He  was  used  to 
scenes  of  suffering.    How  often  had  he  stood  be- 
side dying  men,  touching  with  the  sacred  oils  the 
eyes  that  had  looked  too  long  on  sin,  the  lips  that 
had  blasphemed,  the  hands  that  had  taken  hold  so 
greedily  on  pleasure,  while  attending  servitors  of 
the  Church  swung  the  censer  with  its  rising  cloud  of 
incense,  as  though  they  would  perftune  the  bitter 
way  of  death.  How  often  had  he  uttered  over  clos- 
ing eyes  that  magnificent  litany  of  the  Church  in 
which  the  agony  of  human  spirits  supplicates  angels 
and  archangels,  saints  and  apostles,  to  befriend  the 
solitary  traveller  passing  into  the  unknown  shadows 
of  the  final  road.  But  to-day  he  stood  alone  beside 
the  dying,  unsupported  by  the  solemn  ceremonials 
of  his  Church.  And,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  realised  that  he  did  not  need  them.   His  quick 
gaze  rested  upon  Mercy  Lane,  and  he  understood. 
Better  than  any  oils  of  cleansing,  any  incense  of 
upsoaring  adoration,  any  litany  of  supplication,  her 
smile,  her  gracious  kindliness,  her  gentle  touch. 
Yes,  he  understood. 

He  turned  to  West,  and  said,  "  Do  you  remember 
how  we  talked  of  a  New  Church?  " 
"  I  remember." 


352     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"And  I  said,  did  I  not,  that  even  Rome  musi 
g.ve  up  the  Keys  of  Peter  when  Peter's  Mastci 

came  ? 

"  And  He  has  come,"  said  West. 

"Yes,  He  has  come,"  replied  the  Cardinal 
solemnly  "  And  the  old  has  passed  away,  with  i 
foU.es  and  ,ts  errors,  its  traditions  and  its  cere- 
niomes  -thank  God,  with  its  divisions  too.  The 
New  Church  has  come:  it  has  but  one  creed- 
J^ianty;  u  has  but  one  law  of  life,  'Little  chiWm,, 

that  loveth  IS  born  of  God.   God  is  love  '  " 

Hctumed  to  the  three  men  and  said,  with  a  smile, 
hnl     ^" «  *°  ^^"^     ^-te^^hise  you^ 

old  days?  V^t  was  your  denomination,  I  mean?^ 

1  was  a  Presbyterian,"  said  West 
"And  you.  Field?" 

They  called  me  an  Agnostic" 
"And  you,  Stockmar?" 
"  ^       nothing.   Just  an  outsider  " 

He  uttered  the  words  with  gentle  irony. 

I  was  sometimes  proud  of  it,  too."  he  added. 
A  Churchman."  he  went  on.  "How  poor  a 


THE  FALLEN  CHURCH  353 

that  seems  to-day.  I  think  it  has  always  been  the 
symbol  of  hate,  certainly  of  variance  and  division, 
for  all  the  contests  which  have  divided  Christ's 
disciples  have  been  over  questions  of  churchman- 
ship.  But  I  have  found  a  better  word.  It  conies 
to  me  new-bom  out  of  the  cradle  of  this  Christmas 
morn.  O,  God,  let  the  Churchman  perish;  make 
me  by  Thy  grace,  something  infinitely  higher,  bet- 
ter, nobler — a  Christ-man !  " 

"  And  I  also,"  said  West,  "  would  be  a  Christ- 
man." 

"And  I,"  said  Field  and  Stockmar. 

The  four  men  stood  with  bowed  heads,  saluting 
the  new  vision  that  came  with  the  new  word. 

Then  the  Cardinal  turned  to  Mercy  Lane.  She 
had  heard  their  words.  Her  face,  which  West  had 
once  found  deficient  in  beauty,  was  very  lovely  now; 
it  seemed  to  him,  in  its  sweetness  and  composure, 
to  be  the  loveliest  face  he  had  ever  seen. 

"  Mercy  Lane,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "  you  have 
showed  us  all  the  way.  You  were  found  doing  what 
the  Master  did,  when  He  came.  It  is  your  right  to 
give  the  Church  of  the  Future  its  name.  What  shall 
we  call  it, — this  new  place  where,  please  God,  He 
shall  dwell,  and  toward  which  all  men  shall  turn 
with  new  trust  and  confidence?" 

"  Let  us  call  it  not  a  church,"  she  answered, 
quietly.   "  Let  us  call  it  The  Christ-house  I  " 


354     A  SOLDIER  OF  THE  FUTURE 

"  The  Christ-man,  the  Christ-house — ^yes,  that 
completes  the  thought.  The  world  cannot  mis- 
understand that.  And  this  hall  where  you  have  fed 
the  least  of  these  His  brethren  shall  be  the  first 
Christ-house  of  the  new  world  that  begins  to-day. 
May  the  Master  ever  dwell  within  this  House!  " 

He  lifted  his  hand  as  if  in  solemn  dedication. 

"  And  now  let  us  salute  the  New  Day  with  our 
prayers,"'  hf  concluded. 

They  knelt  together  in  the  doorway  of  the  dance- 
hall.  Through  the  clear  air  rang  the  solitary  bell  in 
the  ruined  belfry,  with  its  joyous  Christmas 
message. 

The  dawn  had  come  in  all  its  fulness  now.  The 
terror  of  night  was  past,  and  the  pure,  clear  light 
shone  upon  them  as  they  knelt,  and  clothed  them 
with  its  living  gold.  The  Dawn  had  come,  and  each 
knew  that  it  would  be  unfading. 


EPILOGUE 


AND  HE  AsVOKK.  AXD  BEHOLD  IT 
WAS  A  DREAM! 


LOWLY  the  figures  of  his  dream  withdrew, 


and  the  voices,  thin  as  echoes,  died  away  in 


distance.  As  one  beholds  below  his  feet, 
from  some  mountain  height,  a  tumbled  sea  of 
clouds,  from  which  emerge  one  by  one  the  crags  and 
turrets  of  the  submerged  earth,  so  he  saw  his  old 
familiar  world  return  to  him.  The  sea  of  fantasy 
upheaved  itself  in  one  long,  lucid  wave;  it  broke  in 
glittering  spray,  and  spread  in  streaming  scarves  of 
tinted  vapour;  these  in  turn  dissolved;  and  then  the 
whole  sea  sank,  and  the  plain  outlines  of  the  world 
appeared. 

Recognition  came  to  '  im  at  first  feebly  and  re- 
luctantly. He  did  not  ,  isli  to  wake.  He  caught 
at  the  flying  skirts  of  vision  with  impatient  hands. 
This  resuscitation  of  the  normal  world  was  full  of 
pain;  it  was  like  the  torture  drowning  men  have 
known,  when  the  suspended  life  once  more  resumes 
its  functions.  He  had  tasted  liberty,  he  had  moved 
in  the  boundless;  and  now  his  old  taskmaster.  Life, 


355 


i$6  EPILCXJUE 

had  overtaken  him,  and  the  hounds  of  Timt  and 
Space  were  baying  at  his  heels.  A  strong  resent- 
ment shook  him,  and  he  sobbed  aloud. 

This  resi  tinent  was  of  brief  duration.  It  was 
succeeded  by  an  effort  at  icadjuslnunt  which 
stretched  every  nerve  and  sinew  with  a  living  pain. 
His  heart  laboured  wildly,  his  eyes  ached  and 
throbbed,  his  hands  groped,  feeling  after  the  fa- 
miliar. Where  was  he?  He  became  slowly  aware 
of  himself.  It  seemed  he  was  a  creature  of  pon- 
derable shape.  Walls  rose  around  him,  and  the 
height  of  the  firmament  contracted  to  a  square  of 
whitewashed  ceiling.  The  solid  world  was  rushing 
at  him,  pushing  him  back;  the  walls  rose  higher  with 
each  instant,  and  contracted  round  him.  Escape 
was  impossible. 

Suddenly  the  struggle  ceased.  The  turmoil  of  his 
labouring  pulses  sank  to  rest.  He  opened  his  eyes 
doubtfully:  his  groping  hands  touched  some  tan- 
gible and  soft  texture;  he  was  conscious  of  a  ray 
of  sunlight  falling  on  his  face.  Then  he  knew  that 
the  physical  universe  had  resumed  its  rights  in  him. 

He  was  not  immediately  aware  of  all  that  this 
discovery  implied.  He  lay  quite  still,  endeavour- 
ing to  digest  its  meaning.  He  recalled  the  colours 
of  the  sunset  he  had  seen,  the  figure,  words,  and 
emphasis  of  the  strange  preacher  he  had  heard. 
All  these  things  seemed  to  have  happened  a  long 


EPILOGUE 


357 


time  ago;  he  regarded  them  impersonally,  as  things 
infinitely  removed.  The  scenery  and  figures  of  his 
dream  were  much  more  real.  The  face  of  Mercy 
Lane,  the  voices  of  the  Cardinal  and  Field  and 
Stockmar,  the  bell  inging  in  the  ruined  belfry,  the 
red  cloud  above  the  ruined  city—all  these  things 
came  back  to  him,  upon  a  wave  of  ecstasy.  It  was 
the  final  onset  of  the  impaipable  upon  his  senses. 
The  wave  ran  back,  echomg  in  the  portlic  s  of  his 
memcry,  and  returned  no  more.  He  was  awake  at 
last. 

And  with  that  came  a  revulsion  of  feelii^,  final 
and  complete.  He  was  at  home  once  more  in  the 
tangible,  plain  world    The  seventh  heaven  clanged 

s  gates  behmd  him;  the  v  rrs  fell  from  his  shoul- 
dt  s;  he  was  again  a  man  w  :r  and  the  homely 
world  of  men  saluted  bin. 

O,  sweet,  familiar  woric-  '.  ;  joy  to  see  it 
once  more  in  its  accustomed  aspects!  He  spran^j 
out  of  bed,  and  stood  at  the  window.  He  saw  men 
and  women  in  the  street,  moving  on  the  roads  of 
common  duty;  the  schoolhouse  bo!!  rang;  children 
passed  with  cries  of  careless  m^.th,  the  broad  sun- 
light 1  iv  upon  the  street.  He  stood  dazed,  trying 
to  collect  his  thoughts. 

O,  sweet,  familiar  world!  Anu  sweetest 
thought  of  all,  Helen  was  with  him  still.  N  ,  doubt 
she  waited  for  him  in  New  York.  She  would  ineet 


358  EPILOGUE 

him  with  faithful  hands  outstretched  to  his.  And 
there  had  been  no  vast  catastroplie;  no  earthquake, 
and  no  flame  of  burning  cities!  The  soHd  earth 
stood  fast.   All  things  were  as  they  were. 

Things  were  as  they  were  in  that  outward  world, 
but  within  himself  he  was  conscious  of  a  change. 
The  inner  landscape  of  his  life  was  not  the  same. 

He  could  not  define  that  change;  he  hardly  wished 
to  do  so.  But  he  knew  that  he  was  not  the  same 
man.  He  woke  as  Adam  woke  from  his  deep  sleep 
in  Eden,  to  a  world  of  new  values  and  relations. 
God  had  been  with  him  in  his  sleep. 

One  thing  he  knew,  and  his  spirit  received  it 
with  humbleness,  as  a  revelation  which  nothing 
could  annul;  he  could  never  live  again  as  he  had 
lived.  His  entire  attitude  to  life  was  altered.  He 
had  ceased  to  be  a  looker-on.  It  was  as  though  a 
weight  of  ice  which  had  )nij  lain  upon  his  heart 
were  melted.  All  his  pulses  beat  with  new  freedom 
and  desire.  A  soft  wind  had  blown  through  his 
members,  like  that  wind  of  tlie  Pacific  which  passes 
through  the  gateways  of  the  western  mountains, 
and  loosens  in  a  single  night  the  iron  stricture  of 
the  frost;  so  that  men  who  have  closed  their  eyes 
at  night  upon  the  dreary  sight  of  frozen  plains, 
open  them  at  daybreak  upon  tht  vision  of  the 
spring.  The  vision  of  the  spring;  the  ancient  woods 
green  once  more,  and  a  hundred  little  rills  of  joy 


EPILOGUE 

singing  round  their  roots;  so  he  had  awakened,  with 
his  whole  nature  mystically  softened  and  renewed. 

He  must  live  differently:  that  was  the  imperative 
conviction  which  laid  hold  upon  him.  He  had  seen 
the  ideal  and  he  must  live  to  make  it  real.  He  had 
dreamed,  but  he  had  dreamed  true. 

And  in  that  moment  he  knew  what  this  ideal  was : 
it  rose  before  him  beautiful  and  lucid,  an  entrancing 
vision.    This  was  what  he  had  to  realise,  this 
Church  of  Charity,  tliis  simple  and  .serviceable 
Church; — the  Christ-man.  the  Christ-house — these 
terms  could  never  be  forgotten.    And  in  this  ideal 
Christ  had  come,  after  all,  and  had  come  to  him. 
Henceforth  he  was  a  dedicated  man.   Men  might 
believe  or  disbelieve;  that  mattered  nothing.  They 
might  ridicule  or  oppose;  he  had  reached  "  the  silent 
seats  above  the  thunder,"  where  neither  their  ap- 
t^roval  nor  their  scorn  could  reach  him.    He  saw 
his  path  before  him,  not  indeed  with  utter  clear- 
ness, but  he  saw  it.    From  it  he  could  never  turn 
aside.    Dark  shadows  lay  upon  it  here  and  there; 
dark  shapes,  with  hooded  brows,  and  stem  lips, 
prophesying  woe,  moved  upon  it;  but  beyond  them 
rose  the  hills  of  Light,  crowned  with  music.  And 
that  music  had  tlie  note  of  conquest  in  it.  He  could 
not  fail.    He  might  die  upon  the  road,  but  death 
was  not  failure.    Thrnigh  bonds  and  afflictions 
awaited  him,  still  he  must  go  on — he  would  reach 


3^0  EPILOGUE 

Home  at  last.   The  hills  of  light,  etch  a  flame,  a 

song, — ah,  he  must  reach  to  them;  he  must,  he 
woulfl,  for  was  he  not  henceforth  a  dedicated  man? 

He  fell  upon  his  knees,  a  supreme  rapture  filled 
his  heart.  An  hour  passed,  and  he  was  still  praying. 
When  he  arose  it  was  with  a  light  oi  transfiguration 
on  his  face.  For  his  face  was  set  stedfastly  toward 
the  Jerusalem  of  tnumjAant  crucifixion. 

He  gazed  once  more  from  the  window  upon  the 
little  town.  The  full  noon  lay  upon  the  street.  But 
for  him  a  li^ht  brighter  than  the  noonday  sun  Uy 
upon  his  heart.  The  Past,  with  all  its  errors,  was 
forgotten.  He  had  at  last  an  authentic  imssage  for 
the  World. 

An  liour  later  he  moved  through  the  sun-bathed 
street  with  elated  step.  He  knew  that  in  those  hours 
of  vision  he  had  received  his  commission  frmn  Him 
who  makes  all  things  new. 

He  was  a  Soldier  of  the  Future. 


e,  « 
he 

lan? 
illed 
ing. 
tion 
^ard 

the 
But 
Uy 
was 
for 

hed 
)urs 
lim 


